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“This is a great pleasure to see you again.”
By
Benjamin F. Comfort
THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.
Boston, Massachusetts
1908
Copyright, 1908
BY
The C. M. Clark Publishing Co.
Boston, Massachusetts
U. S. A.
All Rights Reserved
Dedicated to
My Wife
A. C. C.
| Frontispiece, “This is a great pleasure to see you again” | |
| Page | |
| Mollie Greydon | 34 |
| Two girls were seeking wild strawberries on the banks of the Wingohocking | 148 |
| “Have we the pleasure of the gentleman’s name and occupation?” quizzed the old man | 178 |
| Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired out | 222 |
| Captain Risk engaged two seamen, cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other | 275 |
| She noticed how longingly he watched her depart | 333 |
| Mollie put down her needle-work and ran to meet her | 360 |
ARNOLD’S TEMPTER
Roderick Barclugh was invited to dine with the FitzMaurices and Benedict Arnold was to meet him.
The arrival in Philadelphia of a gentleman with credentials from Dr. Franklin to the Secretary of Congress, who had much influence with the French Court, and who had bills of exchange for twenty thousand pounds sterling created stirring comment among the fashionables. He was to meet without delay the choice spirits on the inside of Philadelphia’s aristocratical party.
Robert FitzMaurice’s mansion, to which had been made great additions, to suit the tastes of the new proprietor, was an old Colonial landmark. The ambition of this merchant prince and financier had ever been to establish his family and his fortunes under the English system of aristocracy, upon such a grand scale of magnificence that he could claim all the blandishments of a crest and a title which, of course, belong to a person of substance. His entertainments were numerous, and there gathered all the intriguers in and out of Congress,—those who sanctioned the Revolution on political grounds but who shuddered at the utterance of the word ‘democracy.’ The clergy, the judiciary, the lawyers, the knights-errant and the financiers, found congenial atmosphere and hospitality in this house; for schemes were there laid to win independence, but, once won, the English Constitution and its institutions of aristocracy and finance were the only safeguards of prosperity and liberty which the common people should consider.
Upon the occasion of the dinner for Roderick Barclugh, the guests most suitable for an affair of such financial and political importance were to be Judge Shippen and his charming daughter, Bessie; General Arnold and his bride, formerly Miss Peggy Shippen; Reverend Mr. White, Rector of St. Peter’s and brother to Mrs. FitzMaurice; Thomas Milling and Mrs. Milling; Mr. Wilson, a lawyer, and chief coadjutor in aristocratic plans. Besides the foregoing, Colonel Hamilton, the aide of General Washington, being in Philadelphia on business, and Roderick Barclugh completed the list of the older set. A bevy of young and attractive belles of the day were invited to give spirit to the party. These were Miss Chew, daughter of Judge Chew, a suspected Tory; Miss Logan, a representative of an old and distinguished Quaker family; and Miss Greydon, a beauty and wit, who, by the way, was the only personage present of advanced democratic belief.
At half-past five the coach-and-four of General Arnold rolled into the porte cochere of the FitzMaurice mansion, and the General, dressed with wine-colored coat and knee breeches, buckles and velvet waistcoat, lace frills in his sleeves and bosom, gallantly escorted his young and brilliant wife up the steps into the spacious hallway.
Roderick Barclugh arrived with Mr. Wilson in the latter’s carriage. Liveried lackeys bowed and scraped at every turn as the guests arrived and retired to the dressing-rooms, and afterwards presented themselves to the hostess and host in the reception room. The elegant apparel and polished manners of Roderick Barclugh impressed everybody present with a feeling that he was a man of affairs.
As General Arnold came into the room bearing on his arm Mrs. Arnold,—blushing, beautiful and distingue—, both stepping up urbanely to greet the hostess and host, Roderick Barclugh read family domination in the hauteur and firm mouth of the young dame.
As the hostess turned to Roderick Barclugh she said:
“General Arnold, may I present to you and Mrs. Arnold, Mr. Barclugh?”
Roderick Barclugh bowed twice, very low, and Mrs. Arnold took pains to say most cordially:
“It is with much pleasure we meet you, Mr. Barclugh,” as she smiled most sweetly and passed on to the other part of the room to greet friends.
Colonel Hamilton and Roderick Barclugh were the only ones who were not intimately acquainted with every one else, so the party at once took on a most free and jolly air. The young ladies at once lionized Colonel Hamilton, who was a very popular beau of his time. Miss Greydon was already making a few good-natured sallies at the Colonel.
Mr. Wilson held the attention of Roderick Barclugh by saying:
“Why, sir, Congress has had so many hot-headed and rabid Democrats that the people of wealth and substance in the Colonies have dreaded the issue of the Revolution for fear that the rabble and ignorance of the country would rule,—in fact, I have no love for the so-called inherent rights of the people, sir.”
“But why are the influential people of substance encouraging the Revolution then, if they can see nothing except disorder and anarchy result therefrom?” was the inquisitive rejoinder of Barclugh.
“Why, sir, those New England delegates under Samuel Adams and the Southern delegates under Thomas Jefferson were so rabid that Robert FitzMaurice and myself and our party of conservatives in the Continental Congress were overwhelmed and compelled to sign the Declaration of Independence. We did so reluctantly and after a bitter contest, for the commercial and Quaker interests of Philadelphia opposed the declaration. If the commercial interests of our country could have the decision, there would have been no Declaration of Independence. We would have settled our differences amicably with King George, maintained our allegiance to the British Crown, and held the Colonies under the British Constitution,” was the dramatic response of the Philadelphia lawyer.
“Yes, and every one of you would bargain away your rights as free men for the sake of so-called commercial interests, which will breed a class of tyrants more potent than kings,” was the spirited retort of Miss Greydon, who had been an attentive listener to the doctrines of an advocate who, she knew, was paid for his opinions.
“Well, well, at politics already! Why it seems, Mr. Barclugh, as though the Americans were born for politics,—even the ladies have their opinions,” laughingly remarked the host as he offered his arm to Mrs. Milling, and then turned to the guests with the words:
“James announces dinner.”
The hostess escorted Mr. Barclugh to Mrs. Arnold for her dinner partner, and General Arnold to Miss Chew. Colonel Hamilton was selected to accompany Miss Greydon, and the Reverend Mr. White, Miss Logan. Mr. Wilson offered his arm to Miss Shippen and then Mr. Thomas Milling his to the Rector’s wife, Mrs. White. The hostess graciously took the arm of the eldest of the guests, Judge Shippen, and led the party to table in the spacious dining-hall.
Mrs. Arnold at once put Roderick Barclugh at his ease by entering into a lively conversation. Her young and gay spirits shone out serenely as she said:
“I do wish, Mr. Barclugh, that this horrid war were ended, so that we could once more live in peace and enjoy our homes and society. Do you not think some good man could convince the best Americans of the folly of their cause? Why, I believe I could if I were a man,” as she archly tossed her head smilingly toward her escort.
“You could charm them into your way of thinking, madam, at all events. I believe seriously, however, much might be gained for society by such a course. Against such resources as the Bank of England controls, this war does seem a hopeless task,” concluded Barclugh.
At table the Reverend Mr. White invoked the divine blessing upon the assembled guests and prayed that “the havocs of war would cease by the intercession of the divine wisdom; that the mother country would be brought to a just realization of the needs of the Colonies; and that the Colonies would find their true welfare in the safety and protection of the British Constitution and laws,”—these were the sentiments of the Chaplain of Congress expressed in private.
Mrs. FitzMaurice watched Colonel Hamilton’s face to ascertain how these sentiments of her reverend brother affected one so close to the Commander-in-Chief, but seeing that the Colonel was very enthusiastic in paying his gallantries to the bevy of young ladies around him, she became convinced that the British Constitution had Hamilton’s good will.
The hostess turned to Colonel Hamilton, however, and remarked:
“Now, Colonel, we know that you get to see the young ladies very seldom from your camp, but, come, do let us hear of the Commander-in-Chief, and what the news is about him.”
“Indeed, madam, I beg your forbearance,” replied Hamilton, “General Washington is quite well, but he feels very much discouraged. He complains bitterly about the principal men of the Colonies being detained at home by private and Colonial affairs, so that the responsible positions of Congress have fallen into the hands of incapable and indifferent men. Everything drifts aimlessly along, while many of our able men retire from Congress in order to prosecute schemes for private gain instead of devoting their energies to the welfare of the nation.”
Robert FitzMaurice took a lively interest in the last few remarks and spiritedly replied:
“Yes, I presume we ought to ruin ourselves for the benefit of an irresponsible government. Even though we gain our independence, the government will be dominated by the rabid Whigs in whom we can have no confidence. There will be no stability of government under such demagogues as Samuel Adams and Thomas Jefferson. There will be no sound financial system, nor anything for society to respect but the rag-tag and bob-tail descended from everywhere and kin to nobody.” As he concluded the last sally, everybody joined in a general laugh.
“Where could we expect to find any grandes dames or any examples of gentlemen? We know too well already what would become of a nation ruled by shopkeepers and bushwhackers. I can see no virtue in the so-called schemes of self-government; society could never submit to such indignities. We would have to go to England to escape from such a rabble,” was the bitter homily of Mrs. Arnold, as she spoke in well measured language, and showed the fire of her dark eyes, and the charms of her long lashes and beautiful neck.
“Bravo, madam,” was the challenge of Mr. Wilson, the lawyer, as he lifted his wine-glass, and all the gentlemen followed to drink to the sentiments of General Arnold’s blushing bride.
As the General drained his glass, he beamed with satisfaction; the attention paid his bride tickled the vanity of his nature.
“I am convinced,” remarked Roderick Barclugh, “that if all the ladies could so successfully convince their friends, the war would soon be over.”
“Yes, and it will soon be over if Congress does not change for the better the treatment of the army,”—said Arnold, pointing to himself, while everybody laughed. “There is no gratitude for soldiers in a government by the people,” said Arnold.
“You will receive the plaudits of a great people, as an heritage to your children, General,” slyly, with a chuckle, put in Judge Shippen, his father-in-law.
“Yes, but applause does not buy bread and butter and pay the bills, Judge,” was Arnold’s reply.
“But patriots should restrict their needs of money for the sake of their country,” was the advice of the Reverend Mr. White, the Rector of St. Peter’s Church.
“Certainly, but patriotism, like patience, ceases to be a virtue when one’s family must suffer ignominiously as a consequence,” was the rejoinder of the Commander of Philadelphia.
“But, my dear General,” said Miss Greydon, “what would our cause do if it were not for the sacrifices of our noble mothers, who say to their sons: ‘Take this Bible and keep it in your breast as your guide; care not for me. God will care for the brave and true; pursue your destiny and return not till the tyrant is driven from our shores,’—like the Spartan mother who said: ‘Come back with your shield or upon it.’”
“Ah, Miss Greydon,” said Arnold, “such sentiment is very fine, but very poor business.”
“Ha, ha! that’s it, that’s it. There’s far too much sentiment in our ideas of government,” said the lawyer, Wilson. “Sentiment can never overcome Britain’s power and wealth.”
Now that the dinner was well along, and Miss Greydon saw that if any one was to show loyalty to the cause of the Colonies at this gathering of choice aristocratic spirits, she must assume the task, thus she essayed to reply to the lawyer:
“But, Mr. Wilson, the day will be a very sad one for our government and for our countrymen when we can surrender our cardinal virtues of patriotism and self-denial in order to let personal gain shape the destiny of our government. If mere arms and money are more powerful than the ideas of freedom, of equality and of justice, then wealth and brute force will rule the world. But if every true American stands firmly for self-government and an independent system of finance and our own social relations, Britain can never conquer us. Our nation will prosper and put Britons to shame for the selfishness and audacity of their claims. Were I possessed of the powers of an orator, I would not rest until our Colonies were free to govern themselves in behalf of human rights—not wealth.”
Everybody looked toward Mrs. Arnold, and those who knew her well expected an outburst of her fiery nature, but the hostess, feeling it was now time for the ladies to retire, arose and interposed very gracefully:
“I think we had better retire in favor of the gentlemen, who can settle those questions of state by means of wine and song.”
No sooner had the ladies gone, than the host said to the butler at his side:
“James, you will now bring in the ‘jolly mariner.’”
At once the head waiter appeared bearing a huge punch-bowl laden with a concoction,—the pride of the host. Besides slices of tropical fruits and a foundation of rare old Burgundy, it was made smooth with sugar and Jamaica rum. Then by way of a backbone to “stiffen” it a little, James had put in a good portion of Cognac.
General Arnold had already drunk with everybody whom he could induce; he was just beginning to feel his importance when the “jolly mariner” arrived, and glasses were filled; then Arnold gave vent to the toast nearest his heart. He arose and proposed,
“Here’s success to privateering.”
Standing, everybody drank deeply to this sentiment, for the host was enriching himself on it, and Arnold hoped to support his extravagance by it. The punch was so smooth that even the old heads desired another bumper.
Old Thomas Milling, the head of the host’s trading-firm, was now beginning to feel rather mellow and when he reflected that privateering smacked of the gay sea-rover he sang a couple of stanzas of the old ballad:
“By George, that punch has the magic in it, Robert, to make Milling turn loose,” said Wilson.
“Bravo, Milling.”
“Encore, encore.”
“Ha, ha! We’ll have the next,” rang out a medley of voices.
“All’s well, gentlemen, if it pleases you,” continued the old merchant:
“Here’s to the gold, gentlemen, he says we’re welcome—hic—to it,” said Arnold as he extended a wobbling wine-glass.
“Captain Kidd must have been a bold rover of the seas,” remarked Roderick Barclugh, “to have been commissioned by the British Admiralty to clear the seas of pirates and then to have turned to the plundering himself. I rather admire the audacity of character. His riches would have made him a great man if he had escaped the gallows, like many another before and since his time. The riches are what we must have, no matter so much how they come.”
“Hear, hear, gentlemen,” said Arnold, as he stupidly raised his wine-glass and drank again, “we must have the riches.”
At this moment the butler came quietly into the room and touching General Arnold on the arm, delivered a message.
The Commander of Philadelphia took his leave, and everybody smiled as he made extra efforts to steady his steps out of the room.
While the gentlemen were discussing privateers and the “jolly mariner,” the ladies had gone to the drawing-room to have coffee served.
Mrs. FitzMaurice by an opportune retirement of the ladies from the table had evaded an impending storm, for she had known Mrs. Arnold from girlhood, and saw that a conflict of sentiment between her and Miss Greydon was inevitable. As the hostess had a premonition of the impending clash, she thought best to have the scene among the ladies alone, for they all knew the hysterical temper of the General’s wife.
As soon as the ladies had been seated at the tables for coffee, Mrs. Arnold’s ire began to gather headway.
“I should think,” she said, “that examples of the Spartan woman were good enough for the common people, but for the gentry to give up their birth-rights and fortunes, and to sacrifice themselves and their future for a miserable system of self-government, such statements are vulgar and indecent. Why, just to think! General Arnold asked the Committee on Military Affairs and the Commander-in-Chief to be transferred to the command of West Point, and thus far they have ignored his request. Surely he deserves some honors.”
“Why, Mrs. Arnold, I believe the proper thing to do, entertaining such sentiments toward our principles of free government, instead of seeking West Point, that General Arnold ought to resign, or in fact join the other party,” flashed from Miss Greydon’s ready tongue.
“That’s too much. I—I—I can’t stand it. O General! O Papa! I must leave this room. Somebody, somebody better come here,” shrieked the General’s wife as the hostess led the unfortunate lady to the dressing-room, and sent for General Arnold.
Bitterness of feeling between the Tories and Whigs was mollified in Philadelphia by the gayety and social qualities of the French Minister.
M. de la Luzerne had rare social tact. He flattered the Tories and dazzled the Whigs by fine dinners and balls to which all factions were invited. The salon of his residence was a favorite meeting-place. Political feuds and family jars were settled by the benign smiles and courtesy of the host and hostess. Times were stirring; the checker-board of war held sway in the drawing-room; the social ills of the body politic were cured by this representative of the French monarch, and the Revolution prospered.
As the guests arrived, the liveried butler announced their names in stentorian tones and Mollie Greydon and her father, Dr. Greydon, entered when the music was starting for the cotillion. Roderick Barclugh met Mollie as she came down the staircase, and announced to her that she was to be his partner since her name by lot fell to him.
“May I have the pleasure of dancing with you this evening, Miss Greydon?” Barclugh asked her.
She had taken a parting glance in the mirror. Her reflected pompadour, ribbons, and the lace handkerchief around her sloping white shoulders satisfied her. Her bodice was square-cut and her head, which was stately, poised on a well-rounded neck, added dignity to her well-formed figure. When she appeared on the staircase and approached Roderick Barclugh with a firm but elastic step she felt perfectly calm and comfortably gowned.
“Certainly, Mr. Barclugh,” replied Mollie when asked to dance the cotillion, “I shall deem it an honor.”
She took her partner’s arm and bowed to Alexander Hamilton, General Washington’s aide. He was waiting to invite Mrs. Arnold for the cotillion. Roderick Barclugh’s pulse beat fast with delight, when he stepped into the ball-room, filled with America’s choicest spirits. They swiftly passed among the couples, seated in a semicircle, waiting for the leader to start the dancing; then they sat down, and he began to talk to his beautiful partner.
Anne Milling, herself a belle, ran over to Mollie and whispered,
“You are fortunate in your lot for a partner. He is simply grand.”
Comte de Noailles was the leader of the cotillion, and his selection of figures and favors was both bold and unique. His art had been learned at the French Court, and the Colonists went into ecstacies over his innovations.
Both Mollie and Mrs. Arnold were dancing in the first figure which was a complicated affair requiring eight couples. Mrs. Arnold was standing with her partner, Colonel Hamilton, watching the others when she said:
“Just look at those eyes of Mr. Barclugh,”—and she gave her head a saucy toss,—“he is simply devouring that young Quakeress.”
“But you know, my dear Madam,” said the Colonel, “Miss Greydon has had a beautiful life at Dorminghurst. She has cultivated the classics and is gifted as a linguist. Those accomplishments along with her personal charms are reflected in every movement of her form, which is beautiful.”
“Now, Colonel, I am surprised to have you express yourself so enthusiastically over that young prodigy. She is too ordinary for me. She makes a companion of a young Indian maiden who lives on her father’s estate. I believe her name is Segwuna and she has much influence over Mollie. She also has ideas about the rights of the people. So there! What can you expect? She knits for the soldiers, and attends the dairy at Dorminghurst for her mother!”
“Now! Now! Madam Arnold, you do not feel ungrateful—” Hamilton began.
“For my life, I can not see what Mr. Barclugh can see in a girl of her tastes!” interrupted the General’s wife.
“But,” argued the Colonel, “Mr. Barclugh has seen the jaded life of rouge and power and effete ennui in Paris and this young, beautiful and surprising belle of our Colonies appeals to him.”
“Oh, Colonel, you must be in love yourself,” said Mrs. Arnold archly; “men are such untutored creatures.” She laughed heartily.
“Salut de la Court!” called Comte de Noailles, the leader.
The dancers began the merry round which wound up with Mrs. Arnold being in the promenade with Roderick Barclugh, and Colonel Hamilton with Mollie Greydon.
“You have a fine partner, Miss Greydon,” remarked Hamilton.
“Really, do you think so?” asked Mollie.
“All the ladies are in ecstacies over him. It is a new face and a title that attract.”
“You misunderstand me then,” said Mollie.
“But you are the exception that proves the rule,” enjoined the Colonel, who was handsome in his gay uniform.
“Are men the infallible judges?” parried Mollie.
“When it comes to beauty,” replied the Colonel gayly.
The figure changed and Mollie found herself swinging in the arms of Roderick Barclugh and out of breath she sat down with a swirl of satin skirts that showed a dainty slipper.
Now Colonel Hamilton and Mrs. Arnold had a chance for a tete-a-tete as she sat down with a heaving breast which gave effect to her low-cut corsage of black velvet. Her white hand held a dainty fan which she used vigorously as she said:
“I must tell you something about Roderick Barclugh. He will some day have a title, and he is seeking his fortune in privateering. He is engaged in this business along with FitzMaurice and Milling, and has twenty thousand pounds sterling to his credit with them.”
“Why, how do you happen to know so much about him,” asked the Colonel.
“General Arnold told me. They have some business ventures in privateering together. You know, we do not get enough from Congress for our station.”
“Very true, Madam, but your lot is cast with a man of arms and he must take the fortunes of war,” said Alexander Hamilton sternly.
“Oh, Colonel, you are so severe!” exclaimed the General’s wife as John Milling came up and favored her with the next figure in the cotillion.
Little did Mollie and Barclugh know that they were the observed of all observers in the ball-room. The French Minister came up to them and shook his finger slyly at Barclugh and said: “Une fille par excellence de la belle France.”
Barclugh colored slightly and rose to give the host a chance to speak to Mollie and bowed very low. He then made his way to the side of Madam Arnold.
“This is so sweet of you, ma chere, to grace our assembly with your presence,” smilingly remarked the fat and jolly minister, while rubbing his hands together nervously. “My compliments to your mama,” continued the diplomat, “but look out and do not lose your heart to my countryman, Mr. Barclugh. He is very gay, very gay.” He then passed on to General Arnold.
“No dancing for you, mon cher general, eh?”
“Certainment! Certainment!” replied the diplomat as the General pointed to his wounded knee, a relic of Saratoga.
Mollie now had a chance to pause for a few minutes from the gay whirl of the dance, but she wished that she had never been allowed the opportunity. She grew pale as she saw Roderick Barclugh talking with Mrs. Arnold in a confidential manner. There was just one nod of her head that spoke volumes to Mollie. Hot and cold tremors coursed through her veins, for she could not fathom Mrs. Arnold, therefore she was a mystery to her and Mollie did not like her.
“Is it Tuesday, then?” queried Mrs. Arnold in a voice above the music of the dance.
“Tuesday,” nodded Barclugh in reply, just loud enough for Mollie to hear it.
“Pardon me, Miss Mollie,” came from Barclugh as he took his seat, “I was just making an appointment to ride out with the Commandant and his wife next Tuesday.”
She made no reply, but looked displeased.
The intermission for refreshments ensued, and instead of going directly to the tables where the coffee and chocolate were served, Barclugh and Mollie continued their tete-a-tete.
“I missed your presence so much at Dorminghurst when we had our last tea party, Mr. Barclugh,” said Mollie with much emphasis.
“I am flattered, Miss Greydon,” was all Barclugh could reply. His manner was agitated.
Barclugh did not know why this mere girl should have such an influence upon him. She was a surprise to his soul. Used to the artificial manners of the French Court he could not believe his own eyes when he beheld such grace of person, stately courtesy and dignity in any living being as the one before him.
“But, you know, I do not give flattery,” flashed from the pretty lips.
“Maybe, if I stayed away from your tea party you would not care for that?” queried Barclugh with intensity in his voice.
“Ah, but you know that I said ‘I missed you,’” answered Mollie with a merry glance over the top of her fan.
At this juncture the Comte de Noailles happened along and urged on the dancers:
“Here! Here! We need you. Get your partners for the country reel.”
Barclugh and Mollie stopped their confidences and laughed heartily at each other as they hurried to the refreshment table and returned with glee for the reel.
The Comte danced with Anne Milling and led the couples out into the middle of the floor. Eight couples faced each other and the reel began.
“First couple forward and back!”
“Second couple the same!”
The young now had their chance and the dowagers and the old macaronis filled up the ball-room and looked on with zest and zeal.
Mrs. Arnold while dancing with her partner, Colonel Hamilton, could not keep her eyes from Roderick Barclugh and Mollie. She was simply desperate to think that her sister, Bessie, did not have Barclugh for her evening’s partner. She watched the expression on Barclugh’s face as he bowed and swung in the changes of the dance, and she was so preoccupied that when the Comte called:
“First couple up and down the center!”—she did not recognize her partner’s bow until in self-defense Colonel Hamilton said:
“Pardon me, Madam!”
Startled with her inattention she blushed guiltily and took the proffered hand of Colonel Hamilton and promenaded up and down between the lines to the rhythm of the violins and the clapping of hands.
As the turn for Mollie and Barclugh came, it was noticeable to all how Barclugh beamed with pride as he led Mollie, with her hand raised high, and in dainty step passed between the merry dancers. He bowed deferentially as they turned to retrace their steps. Mollie looked all aglow as she stood vis-a-vis to Barclugh. There was intoxication in her manner, her face was illumined with success, but no one recognized this triumph of Mollie Greydon with such envy as Mrs. Arnold. She could not bear to think Barclugh was lost from her influence.
The reel concluded with the Comte bowing and courtesying to the onlookers as they applauded. He gave the call for the last figure:
“All join hands forward and back!”
“Salute!”
“Swing!”
Barclugh swung his partner with an abandon that Mollie could not resist, and then escorted her to Dr. Greydon.
When Mollie had seated herself he finished the evening’s pleasure by saying to her:
“The dance is the language of love.”
On the morning after the assembly Barclugh awoke as though from a dream. After leaving the French Minister’s mansion he went to his bachelor’s quarters on Front Street and sat in his chair trying to dispel the pictures of Mollie Greydon. Reason as he might—that she was a mere girl and he a man of the world, and he ought not to allow his fancy to dwell upon affairs of his heart when he had sterner duties to perform—still the image of that being who had awakened a new life for him clung to his brain and he could not forget it. It gave him no rest.
But the morning of the following Thursday when he was to see her again, he bounded out of bed and felt as though he could not wait for the hour to arrive. To take the carriage to Dorminghurst was his overpowering desire.
The old Colonial mansion of Dorminghurst had been the scene of many brilliant receptions; but this one, when Mollie felt that her fate was to be settled, seemed of far-reaching influence. The servants arranged the china and the tea-urn on a round mahogany table in the center of the drawing-room. Tables and chairs arranged for groups of ladies and gentlemen to sit around and sup their tea and gossip, were placed in the corners of the large room. Mollie was taking a last look at her gown when she heard the first carriage rattle along the roadway and came down the grand staircase to take her place with her parents.
The Greydons held a position of unquestionable influence in the upper society of Philadelphia. James Greydon, Mollie’s grandfather, had been Secretary of William Penn, the founder; then deputy Governor, then executor of Penn’s vast landed estate. Consequently, the Greydons were lordly proprietors, for the thrifty grandfather had bought his lands from the Indians. Thus a card for a reception at Dorminghurst became almost a command.
On this serene afternoon in May the broad avenue of hemlocks seemed more beautiful than ever. The liveried equipages of the FitzMaurices, the Millings, the Redmans, the Binghams, the Adamses, the Chews, the Carrolls, the Pinckneys, the Shippens, the Peterses, the Arnolds came rolling up to the pillared entrance and gay guests alighted, passed hurriedly to the boudoirs and came down to greet Dr. and Mrs. Greydon, and not the least,—Miss Mollie.
That young lady was in an anxious mood. She greeted each arrival in a very sweet and cordial manner, but she cast constant glances out into the arched hallway to see if Roderick Barclugh were among the latest arrivals. She eagerly scanned every face and at last saw him come with James Wilson, the lawyer.
Mollie watched him ascend the curved staircase on one side and return with the line of guests on the other. He was fashionably dressed in his powdered wig and queue and his shining buckles and lace frills. No gentlemen present bore a more distinguished appearance than Roderick Barclugh. She watched him shake the hand of her father and her mother, and, when her turn came, she offered her hand with delight in her eyes as she said:
“I am so glad that you remembered my special invitation.”
There was a slight flush in her cheeks, and she knew that Barclugh approved of her gown and her hair by the satisfied glances that his eyes made. He looked into her eyes as he said softly:
“This is a great pleasure, to see you again.”
Roderick Barclugh bowed profoundly and passed among the guests. He was in the midst of a group who were gossiping about the Arnolds.
“What do you think, Mr. Barclugh,” asked Anne Milling, approaching Barclugh in her most bewitching manner, “the court-martial of General Arnold has found him guilty of misconduct in his office as Commander of Philadelphia and General Washington has been ordered to make a public reprimand. The dear, brave General! He has been made to endure more than he can stand. Don’t you think so, Mr. Barclugh?”
“General Arnold surely is brave, but has he not been extravagant?” was Barclugh’s reply in a tone indicating his aversion to the subject.
“I have little sympathy with him as he has become very imperious and overbearing of late, since he married Peggy Shippen. He did not have the fortune or the position in society to marry such an ambitious girl as Margaret; she needed a baronet,” volunteered Mrs. FitzMaurice, who had the faculty of speaking her mind.
“It is a question which one has the most ambition, Mrs. Arnold or the General, since they have moved into their new country home, ‘Mount Pleasant’ on the Schuylkill. Have you attended any of their gorgeous entertainments? No wonder his ambition runs away with him. They both love luxury and they need money,” chimed in Sally Redman, who loved to have people realize that she knew a few things about the gay world.
“Let me whisper something. It must never be repeated. The French Minister refused General Arnold a loan. I have it from very direct sources,” volunteered Charles Bingham.
“Did he go to the French Minister himself?” queried Barclugh.
“Yes,” replied Bingham, and the whole group laughed heartily.
“Hush! Here they come now,” whispered Anne Milling as she gave Mr. Bingham a touch on his arm.
The General and his wife came up arm in arm, all smiles when the group just referring to them turned and greeted the Commander of Philadelphia and his wife most cordially:
“Why, how do you do, General? How do you do, Peggy, my dear? I am so glad to see you,” said Mrs. FitzMaurice in her sweetest tones and with a smile for both of them.
Mrs. Arnold at once addressed herself to Roderick Barclugh and the General to M. de la Luzerne, who had just joined the group.
“I hope that we may see you out to ‘Mount Pleasant’ very soon, Mr. Barclugh. My sister, Bessie, is now visiting me and it would give us the greatest pleasure to see you. Tuesdays are our days. Then, I must tell you”—in her most pleasing tones—“the General has taken a very great interest in you of late.”
“I thank you, Madam; it will be not your pleasure alone, but mine.”
In times of war very little of the drawing-room satisfied the men of affairs; so, when the ladies and the macaronis were fairly aglow with gossip over the tea-cups, John Adams, Dr. Greydon and Charles Thompson found themselves together in the doctor’s office and began to discuss serious affairs over their pipes and mugs of home ale.
“By thunder! That trading house of Milling and FitzMaurice brought home a fat prize, William,” remarked Charles Thompson. “One of their privateers secured a British ship worth eighty thousand pounds sterling.”
“Is it possible? No wonder they can live in luxury. They are growing fat out of the war. That one prize would pay back one half that they have loaned to Congress,” continued John Adams.
“I always was opposed to war on general principles,” argued Dr. Greydon, “but if we must fight, all right. Yet, when private individuals can go out on the high seas and take other private individuals’ substance it seems like licensed robbery.”
“I venture to say riches thus gained will never profit the gainer. Robert FitzMaurice has made fabulous riches out of his piratical enterprise but he will lose it all, some day,” reasoned the Secretary of Congress.
“Heigho there!” exclaimed John Adams, “do you know that FitzMaurice and Milling are now planning to start a bank and to do all the financing for Congress? They want a charter.”
“That’s fine,” began Dr. Greydon. “First, Congress grants letters of Marque and Reprisal to these enterprising merchants, in order for them to hold up their neighbors’ ships and rob them; now, when they grow rich out of the war, we will license them to hold our hands when they can go into our pockets and rob us. Oh! That’s a fine scheme to throttle our war. They could tell us then to lay down our arms if the bank was not pleased. Never let us get into the clutches of these financiers. The power of the purse must always belong to Congress, the representatives of the people.”
Thus spoke Dr. Greydon, and then Charles Thompson added:
“The money of our Congress maybe depreciated, but if the people of our country accept it, which the patriots do—maybe the Tories do not—we will prosper; but if we give ourselves into the hands of the bank, they would take nothing but specie for payment and we would be paralyzed. We could do nothing but surrender.”
“Here! Here! William, we are forgetting our ladies,” said John Adams, and they arose and joined the guests in the drawing-room.
Mollie was helping her mother serve the tea; the guests were seated at the tables; but she did not lose sight of Barclugh. Although the large drawing-room and the library were thronged with guests, she could not let him out of her sight. Members of Congress, generals, their sons and daughters, and French diplomats thronged the rooms but they soon began to depart.
At the first opportunity Barclugh left his tea-cup and found his way to the side of Mollie. She turned and said spiritedly:
“You must miss your gay society in Paris, Mr. Barclugh? They must be so different from our society? I would be delighted to travel abroad again; I was so young when papa took me to England.”
“Society is very much the same the world over,” answered Barclugh,—“so insincere.”
“Are all people insincere, Mr. Barclugh?” returned Mollie.
“By no means. There is one whom I know to be sincere.”
Mollie Greydon.
“But, do you really, Mr. Barclugh, enjoy your sojourn in America?” insisted Mollie.
“I would leave to-morrow if it were not for the tete-a-tetes that I have with one whom I meet too seldom.”
“That is exasperating, Mr. Barclugh. Who can it be? Is it Mrs. Arnold?” sallied Mollie.
“Oh! no! no! She is too imperious. Can you not guess?” and Barclugh looked so appealingly into Mollie’s eyes that her pulse seemed to cease.
She grew pale and could scarcely venture a reply.
“I would not dare to guess,” she said softly, “for fear that I might be mistaken.”
The Secretary of Congress, Charles Thompson, came up to Mollie at this juncture to bid her good-bye and she was drawn into the duties of bidding the guests farewell; Roderick Barclugh left Dorminghurst that afternoon, determined to win the heart of Mollie Greydon; but little did he know what stirring events would intervene before he could offer himself to the one he loved.
“That game, Charles, last night, upset our plans, and we must recoup our fortunes from government,” suggested young Lord Carlisle bitterly, on the morning after he had lost ten thousand pounds sterling at a single cast at hazard in Brooks’ Club.
He was addressing his two cronies, Charles Fox and George Selwyn. Both were members of Parliament and included within the inner Cabinet and Councils of the government of Lord North. Both were powerful in the set that obtained favors (for the chosen few) from the monarch, George III.
In order that no one might observe them, the three were alighting from the chariot of Lord Carlisle and entering the “Old Cock” Tavern, a resort for literary drudges and solicitors of Temple Court. They entered at the side entrance in Apollo Court, just off Fleet Street. They had come directly from the gaming-table, dejected and desperate from heavy loss, to a place where they could retire securely to one of the cosy corners for breakfast and repose.
Having been all night in the great room at Brooks’, nerved to high tension at the hazard of great stakes, this sorry set of cronies sought refreshment and a reckoning of their shattered fortunes. One of those reposeful havens for the “weary and heavy laden,” in old London’s jaded life, now appealed to these gaming spirits and leaders of government.
The “Old Cock” boasted of a respectable antiquity even at this time, 1777. The old gossip, Samuel Pepys, had graced its haunts in the time of the Stuarts; it survived the ravages of the Plague, and even the great fire of Old London; the entrance was a passageway that passed a flight of stairs and a bar into a large, well-lighted coffee-room. Skylights furnished air and sunshine whenever London could lay claim to the latter. Bright sea-sand glistened on the faultless floor. Rows of mahogany boxes, formed by high-backed seats on three sides and open toward the center, surrounded the entire room, except where the huge fireplace added good cheer in its restful, blazing wood.
In one of these boxes a party could be quite secluded. The tops of the settles were higher than one’s head and a bandy-legged table of mahogany sat between the benches. The mantel of the fireplace was massive oak, carved after the fashion of the Elizabethan age, and the atmosphere of the place was presided over by a heroic representation of an “Old Cock” perched high at the farther end in the act of hailing the morn.
Noted for its wine and for those “who knew what was good and could afford to pay for it,” the “Old Cock” was justly celebrated for the solace within its walls.
Life swirled in Old London, around the young bloods at Brooks’. The great room where hazard ran riot beheld noted encounters between Fox, March, Burgoyne, Carlisle, Rodney and Selwyn. These revels afforded gossip in coffee-houses, taverns and drawing-rooms. Many a bottle of good, old port tickled the cockles of a Londoner’s heart, while Fox’s debts, Carlisle’s losses and Selwyn’s witticisms afforded old London-town an excuse to gossip about people to one’s heart’s content. A reckoning, however, was sure to come. No bulls and bears were in existence then, but their progenitors revelled in high play at the club.
“Charles,” began Carlisle in a cozy nook of the “Old Cock,” “you know that Burgoyne’s return from his disaster affects our situation most seriously. What can be done to meet our disappointments? If Burgoyne had simply reached New York, the King would have elevated him to the vacant peerage of S—— as was promised us; and Parliament would have voted him one hundred thousand pounds sterling so that he could have paid me his debt of twenty-five thousand pounds.”
Fox, who had been in Lord North’s cabinet, and as Junior Lord of the Treasury had opposed the estrangement of the Colonies, foresaw the disaster in war as carried on by Lord North. His powerful influences were directed to stop the war more by diplomacy than by force. But his gambling proclivities kept all of his friends in jeopardy. Now something must be done to stop the disastrous war and at the same stroke recoup the waning fortunes of himself and his cronies.
Therefore, turning to his two friends in distress, he mildly argued:
“Well Carlisle, I shall go to my friend, Mr. Prince, Governor of the Corporation of the Bank of England, and ask him to insist with that old fool, Lord North, that if our soldiers can not whip the Colonists, we must buy the leaders. We can appoint a commission with yourself, Carlisle, at its head to go to America and settle the conflict with a coup d’etat.”
Selwyn listened most eagerly to whatever Charles advised at all times, but now he smiled graciously as he exclaimed:
“Zounds! that’s good! My Lord, if you once get to America to show your bags of gold to the hungry dogs, the woods will ring with the yelps of the hungry pack. They would give up the chase and devour the bones that you might throw to them,” exclaimed Selwyn, who sat in the corner sipping his well-brewed coffee.
“Such a stroke,” continued Selwyn, lazily, “to win the Colonies, would bring us the King’s favor and two hundred thousand pounds sterling by Parliament, my Lord; and we would once more recoup our fortunes. Then Charles could satisfy the Shylocks and kick them down the stairs.”
While these gentlemen of plots on the government exchequer were scheming in their corner, the rest of the coffee-room of the old tavern was humming with groups of customers, who were drinking, smoking, and eating to their hearts’ content.
Lingering over tankards of ale, or puffing at long pipes of tobacco, tables were surrounded by wise-visaged solicitors discussing the possible phases of the trial of the Duchess of Kingsley, who was on trial for bigamy.
Having married, clandestinely, the second son of Lord Ker, and the marriage being disowned, the Duchess had lived publicly with the Duke of Kingsley, and finally married him during Mr. Ker’s lifetime. But at the death of the Duke, proceedings were instituted by which she was found guilty of the crime charged, and thus lost all the property left her by the Duke. If such subjects did not afford gossip at the coffee-houses others did.
In one corner were the literary characters, among whom was Dr. Johnson, and, of course, his friend Boswell,—surrounded by a company of satellites, all of whom paid court to the old autocrat, the leader of all criticism, and the arbiter of all opinions on the passing literary productions.
Oh, how the “old growler” delighted in a pint of port! When his soul grew mellow how that charmed circle delighted to hear him repeat for the five hundredth time those favorite lines from rare old Ben Jonson:
Selwyn was a great admirer of Fox, and was one of his life-long friends, but a courtier first and last.
His friendship for Lord Carlisle also was of the most tender nature. He stood between his two friends as the adviser of Carlisle and the guardian of Fox. The latter was a brilliant politician, and a passionate gamester, who needed the good offices of a diplomat like Selwyn.
Yet Selwyn’s most concern was to keep Fox within a sphere of usefulness, in order that Fox could pay back to Carlisle money that was loaned at the gaming-table. The interests of the three were so involved that one had to maintain the other in order to preserve himself; they repeated the story of Cæsar and Pompey.
“I have the scheme,” ejaculated Selwyn, who was by this time growing enthusiastic over the idea of stopping the American War with the English valor that wins their battles when bayonets fail. “I am acquainted with a young man who is the secret agent of the Bank of England in France and has brought us the innermost information from the French Court by reason of his skill as a diplomat, and his pretended friendship for the American cause.
“He is a personal friend of Dr. Franklin. In America he could be recognized as a supporter of the cause of independence while he kept your Commission informed as to the weakness within the American ranks.
“You could induce him,” continued Selwyn spiritedly, “to undertake the mission by promising the highest position, that of Viceroy in the Colonies. You could also offer a peerage and vast landed estates in America for his success.”
“No man could resist such inducements,” concluded Carlisle, as he drank in the plans with evident satisfaction.
Fox sat there unconcerned as to details, but awakening out of a reverie on last night’s game remarked to Selwyn:
“George, I am agreed. You talk well, but what is the man’s name?”
As a matter of fact, Fox did not have so much concern about the Colonies, as he did about the vast sum of money that he owed Carlisle. He was ready for any expedient to pacify his creditor and give some excuse to put off demands on his depleted fortunes.
If Carlisle should succeed in retaining the Colonies within the empire, and at the same time receive great personal treasures from the government, Fox’s personal obligations would be cancelled and a disastrous war would be ended.
Selwyn, replying to Fox’s question, said persuasively:
“His name, my dear Charles, is Roderick Barclugh, but for purposes of state it must be withheld until the plans are working. If you are agreed you can submit your plan to the King through the bank. I am sure that the King will take up your ideas as his own. Then he has to listen to those people that control his purse-strings, anyway.”
Lord Carlisle, young and ambitious to recoup his severe losses, arose from the breakfast and said decisively:
“Gentlemen, the plan is well conceived. If it fails to subdue the rebels, my name will sink to the depths of ignominy; but if it succeeds, I shall have the honor of serving my King as well as Warren Hastings at all events.”
Whereupon the three plotters departed for their lodgings, to be ready for the game at Brooks’ that night.
Selwyn, the diplomat of the trio, set the plans to working. He interviewed Mr. Prince, the Governor of the Bank of England, who consented to influence the King.
“Your Majesty, I am informed that the French monarch has decided to recognize the independence of the Americans and put all the resources of France against Great Britain.”
“Whence comes your information, Mr. Prince?” asked George III, as he sat in his private study of St. James’s, October, 1777.
“Your Majesty, the secret service of the Bank of England has kept Roderick Barclugh in the French Court. He is on terms of intimacy with Louis XVI. He associates with Benjamin Franklin and the Colonial party; he keeps us informed as to every phase of their affairs.”
George III rubbed his hands in each other and looked impatient but gracious, yet his eyes had an anxious gleam as he nervously asked:
“Is the recognition of the independence of the Colonies possible and has it come at last? What shall we do about it then, Mr. Prince?”
“There is but one way to reconcile the Americans, since Burgoyne’s surrender, your Majesty,” replied the Bank Governor. “We must convince the leaders of the army and the men of substance in the Colonies, that a long-drawn-out war will ruin the country—that the return of peace will establish commerce and prosperity; and that allegiance to your Majesty’s person and crown will give the protection that a young commonwealth needs.”
“Very well, very well, sir, but what means are you going to use to convince these rebels?” queried the monarch, impatiently, as he began to comprehend the undertaking that began to develop.
“Not by warlike means, your Majesty, which has cost your exchequer twenty thousand pounds sterling for each and every rebel so far killed, but by the most subtle subjection—that of diplomacy and finance,” replied Mr. Prince (who knew that the King had used this policy to carry his desires through Parliament).
“Ah, that is good,” exclaimed the King. “But whom can we trust with such a delicate mission? I have learned to depend upon the wisdom of your money, but not upon persons. Can you lay a plan that will accomplish the result? I have so few men of the genius that you display, Mr. Prince.”
Mr. Prince now had the ear of the monarch, and as George III showed his abject helplessness, the holder of England’s purse-strings took advantage of the situation to carry out the plot planned in the “Old Cock” Tavern:
“Your Majesty, we must send a Commission to treat with the Colonists on the spot, when we have turned the men of substance to a desire for peace. We must send a skilled diplomat among the Colonists, who will keep us informed as to what the Colonists will do for peace if we were to grant all their demands except independence. This undertaking will be dangerous and delicate. Our agent must gain the confidence of the leaders within the rebel lines. He must be one who can go without the least suspicion. If he succeeds we must reward him by making him Viceroy (an echo of the conspirators in the ‘Old Cock’ Tavern) and by granting him a peerage and a landed estate befitting his dignity of office.”
“Agreed, Mr. Prince, but whom can you recommend for such delicate commissions?” asked the King, as he grew enthusiastic over the plot, for George III loved intrigue.
“Ah!” exclaimed “the arbiter of the power of the purse” (the one great security of the rights of Englishmen), as he bowed very low to the monarch:
“May it please your Majesty to entrust your humble servant with so much privilege as to name the one who is to save your Colonies. There is no one that will respect your royal will with as much diligence as your faithful diplomat, Roderick Barclugh. Then for the commissioner to conclude your terms of peace, I would humbly beg that you entrust such matters of importance to your Lord Carlisle.”
“Excellent! Excellent! Sir,” exclaimed the King, “but where are these gentlemen? Command them into my presence. My plans shall be carried out at once. All that was needed was to have a suggestion, for these have always been my ideas, I now stand firmly on this idea since you have seconded me; I have always stood for it; England shall not lose her Colonies. I am not to be outdone by the French. Where are these gentlemen, sir?” asked the subtle monarch of the President of the Bank of England.
Mr. Prince bowed and left the King, for he knew his character so well that there was nothing more for him to do. He had carried his plans, although His Majesty had finally claimed them as his own.
However, when the King asked for Roderick Barclugh and Lord Carlisle, these worthy gentlemen were close at hand (not by accident) but by means of the finesse of the worthy George Selwyn, who was a courtier of no mean order. He had his pawns ready for the next move on the checker-board.
The King had now grown more self-conceited, and when these worthy gentlemen came into his private audience and both approached and knelt in obeisance to his commands (for Mr. Prince had given the cue of what was to happen when he passed out), the King arose and said:
“Lord Carlisle, arise. Mr. Barclugh, arise. It is at your Sovereign’s commands that you shall proceed to the shores of his rebellious Colonists and use your persuasion to insure their allegiance to the British Realm. Gentlemen, no means must be spared to preserve the integrity of the British Empire. May the blessings of God pursue your endeavors. Follow the plans that hath pleased the Almighty to have your Sovereign prepare.”
At the conclusion of this inspired speech, His Majesty stepped toward Lord Carlisle and Mr. Barclugh, and shook each by the hand and spoke of the great pleasure that his duty gave, whereupon these two representatives of royalty retired in due form and respect from his royal presence.
When our commissioner and our secret agent emerged from the august presence of George III, they made straightway to the chariot of Lord Carlisle and were driven post-haste to Brooks’ Club. Carlisle alighted, but Barclugh went to the house of his chief, Mr. Prince, for he was in London incognito.
Fox at the head of the faro table was banker, and Selwyn sat opposite, in the great green room at Brooks’. The play was highly interesting when Carlisle entered the room. The Bank was two thousand pounds sterling to the good and the night was but begun. Lord Carlisle went to the side of Fox and spoke to him, who turned the deal over to Gilly Williams. Selwyn arose at a sign from Fox, and the three conspirators left for a private room to discuss the new phase of American politics.
Fox, who was easily the leader of the Whig coterie that centered in Brooks’ Club, opened the discussion by remarking:
“Has the ‘lunatic’ (George III) carried out the plan?”
“He has,” replied Carlisle, who had just left his Majesty.
“But who is this Barclugh? Can we depend upon him? His task is almost superhuman,” commented Fox to his cronies.
“Barclugh is the grandson of Sir George Barclugh of the plot to murder William of Orange,” remarked Carlisle.
“He will do, then,” assented Fox. “For the followers of the Stuarts were the most remarkable zealots of any age.”
“Yes, and Barclugh has been the secret agent of Mr. Prince, the President of the Bank of England, at the court of Louis for five years past. His reports have been reliable and I can vouch for anything that he undertakes,” contended Selwyn, who was the balance-wheel and the diplomat of these choice spirits of Brooks’ high play.
“Very well, very well,” exclaimed Charles, “you and Carlisle fix up the details; I must be back, Gilly will ruin me. You and Carlisle fix up these matters—whatever you do will suit me. You know I must not leave the game,” contended Fox, as he nervously spoke and returned to the green room and hurried to his seat at the head of the table where the banker sat turning the cards for the coterie of gamesters.
Selwyn now had an opportunity to go calmly over the points at issue with Carlisle.
“This war must be ended, my Lord,” said Selwyn. “Give Barclugh every opportunity to win the leaders. Keep the army, under that drawing-room general, Sir Henry, at a respectful distance from the wily Washington; let Barclugh ply his arts among the substantial Colonists, and you will return as the savior of the Colonies and a Parliamentary grant will await you.”
“But suppose the plans fail, George, what then?” anxiously queried Carlisle.
“Nothing fails that Britons put their hands and hearts to,” expostulated Selwyn. “Start to-morrow; be on the scene—Barclugh will follow. Nothing daunts the ambitious Briton; we must succeed, or ruin stares us in the face. The continuous drain upon our resources at the gaming-table has sapped our substance,—we must have funds from government or give up our life at the Club. Carlisle, the game depends upon you.”
Thus reasoned Selwyn, for he knew that the select few who practised high play at Brooks’ had exhausted the resources of their set, and the only legitimate prey at hand was the funds of government to be won at the game of Colonial politics.
Carlisle left on the first ship for New York, and Barclugh was to leave as soon as Lord Germaine could fix up the funds and credentials for him to carry to the scene of war in America.
Roderick Barclugh was fitted by environment and education to become a diplomat of no mean order. Born in 1749, his parentage a Scotch father and a French mother—the rare combination of shrewdness and finesse—whose traditions on one side led back to the cause of the Stuarts, and a line of court favorites of the French monarch on the other—distinguished him for a life of bold intrigue.
His grandfather, Sir George Barclugh, quit his native land with the Pretender, James II. His father was reared in Paris, and married the French Queen’s lady-in-waiting, Marie La Fitte. The union was happy and two sons were the issue. The older was named George Barclugh and the younger Roderick. The boys grew up surrounded by all the elegant manners of the French Court at this period.
At twenty-two years of age Roderick Barclugh could speak English, French and Spanish. He was tall and vigorous in constitution; endowed with shrewd, steely-blue eyes and a prominent aquiline nose. Firmness and fortitude were in every expression of his eyes and mouth. His hair was reddish-brown in color—partaking of the auburn locks of his Scotch grandfather, and the black of his mother’s race.
He was faultless in his easy manner when in society of ladies, and when among men inclined to be brusque and haughty. His eyes had a merry assurance of good will; yet therein could be found firmness, determination and passion. His voice was trained for the dulcet tones of persuasion, and, at will, he could command the robust tones of his father’s race.
Without effort Roderick Barclugh could control his feelings and be nonchalant to sentiment, and on necessary occasions be frivolous and gay. His composition had all the artful diplomacy of a French courtier and the canny ways of an ingenious and bold Scotsman—altogether, a brilliant and dangerous being.
Revolutionary New York was enveloped in an atmosphere of sombre unrest. The English had driven out the patriot families; some loyalists, however, who were persecuted in other colonies sought refuge in New York, but they simply became hangers-on at a huge military camp.
Gayety was forced. The monotony of military cares bore heavily upon the British leaders and at length desperation was traced upon their faces. There was no enterprise. Something must be done or the spirit of militarism would die.
Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander-in-Chief, was fat and short. Punctilious with his officers, formal,—even distant, in his manners—he was not one to inspire enthusiasm. His face was full, his nose was large and prominent, and although an expression of animated intelligence at times pervaded his countenance, still he lacked the rare ability to inspire confidence and conviction. He was simply in command because favoritism had placed him there; he was a drawing-room general.
On a crisp day in November, General Clinton and Lord Carlisle were surveying the landscape from the drawing-room of the Beekman mansion, which was a beautiful seat of revolutionary times, and the chosen country residence of the British Commander.
The blue waters of the bay were whipped into white waves as the nor’east gale swept over the water. The energy of the wind broke forth in sparkling waves upon the bosom of the harbor and Sir Henry explained to Lord Carlisle how the commerce of the new continent would center in this haven that was now controlled by his British forces. He gestured confidently as he maintained that the admiralty had a base in New York harbor from which to fit out its men-of-war and carry on the conflict in any direction.
In the midst of his laborious arguments Sir Henry exclaimed:
“My Lord, there comes one of our forty-four-gun frigates! Zounds! She’s standing right up to the inner anchorage. She may be a messenger from our War Lord, Germaine.”
Sir Henry took up his spying-glass and stepped out upon the portico to see what ship it might be.
Lord Carlisle walked back and forth impatiently, while Sir Henry closely watched the movements of the ship.
These two men differed in their plans for the conduct of the war. Lord Carlisle wished to offer a proclamation to the Colonists, openly conceding everything that the people demanded except absolute independence. But Sir Henry chafed under this means of procedure. He saw that such a course implied the failure of the military to deal with the problem of subduing the Americans. He contended that a decisive stroke must be made by the army before any terms should be offered the rebellious Colonists.
Carlisle spoke impatiently when the ship was looming up in full view:
“I hope that Germaine has sent Barclugh with definite instructions as to our course. We are losing valuable time and opportunity here by reason of our inactivity.”
This last word was a distinct challenge to Clinton, who lowered his glass long enough to look squarely at Carlisle and remark spiritedly:
“There is no use to waste words, my Lord. We cannot afford to sacrifice the reputation of English arms; it would be suicidal. Treat with the rascals? Yes, when they have felt the force of our power. Now that they have formed an alliance with our ancient enemy we must deal them a crushing blow, first.”
Carlisle, however, was insisting upon the right of the commissioners to dictate the policy, yet he did not care how the results were attained so long as his mission to America was successful. Fox and Selwyn would see that he was properly rewarded, provided the Colonies were not lost.
“Very good, Sir Henry,” retorted Carlisle, when the General stood before him in an attitude of defiance, “but the longer that we wait, the farther apart we drift. I am intent upon activities in one way or another.”
“There she comes to,” continued Sir Henry, as he resumed his spying investigations. “By the speed that she comes up the bay, I believe that she may be the Prince Harry, the fastest cruiser of the Admiralty’s register.”
“How deluded these rebels are to hold out against such odds on the sea,” exclaimed Sir Henry, with animation. “How magnificent to behold the seamanship of our sailors! Behold them swarm the yard-arms! There go the anchors to the catheads! She swings to the cable! Her sails are stowed in a twinkling! What discipline! I maintain our sovereignty of the seas and we have no business to beg a settlement except at our own terms,” concluded General Clinton as he turned upon Lord Carlisle, waving his little fat hands and arms majestically.
Carlisle saw where Sir Henry had placed him when he appealed to an Englishman’s vanity, his ships; but he looked at General Clinton through those blue eyes for an instant and fell back upon the only argument that an Englishman could never withstand.
“But, Sir Henry, you do not comprehend,” argued Carlisle, “what an expenditure of treasure this war has already cost the King’s exchequer. Mr. Prince, the Governor of the Bank of England, says: ‘We shall all be paupers by this everlasting drain on our gold.’ Sir Henry, I represent the financial side of this problem.”
“Well, my Lord,” retorted Sir Henry, “all that I can say to your argument is, that with your money power, as now constituted, having your Bank Governor at the throat of our nation, you will make cowards of us all. We shall lose the toil of two centuries and the sacrifices of twenty generations of Englishmen in colonizing a wilderness. For what? For the dross called pounds sterling! The Colonists are unruly children. Chastise them and then bring them back home and treat them generously.”
Carlisle now paced nervously up and down the portico, evidently thinking of how he would turn the last argument of Sir Henry, when the little fat body of the General fairly bubbled over with pugnacity as he grew red in the face and exclaimed:
“If the War Lord would give me the men to chastise the rebels well, and not listen to the whining Bank Governor, we could wage a successful campaign and make an honorable peace.”
Lord Carlisle held his peace and glared at Clinton.
Now General Clinton turned toward the bay and there beheld events transpiring that turned the temper of his conversation.
“Zounds!” he exclaimed. “They have lowered a boat and are making for the Battery. There must be despatches or important personages aboard.”
He raised his glass and looked upon the boat’s crew approaching the shore.
“We need not bother ourselves,” contended Sir Henry, “Andre will forward anything of importance to us.”
The two representatives of government then returned to the drawing-room to get out of the biting wind and to indulge in a bottle of Madeira for old England’s sake.
At the office of the Commander-in-Chief, No. 1 Broadway, was Major John Andre who had come from the capture of Charleston with General Clinton as Adjutant General of the English Army. He was unmarried and young and affable. His lodgings were in the same house as the General’s office and he dined at the King’s Arms Tavern, No. 9 Broadway, a few doors from his quarters.
As soon as the boat could land from the Prince Harry, no time was lost in forwarding the despatches to headquarters.
A passenger came ashore, a young man dressed in the style of a Parisian of fashion. He had travelled under an assumed name, for even the British naval officers were not to know his mission. The arrangement of his queue was faultless. His satins and sword, his laces and high-heeled shoes, indicated the courtier. But Pierre La Fitte was none other than Roderick Barclugh on his mission for the King of England.
When Major Andre appeared in the ante-room of the headquarters of General Clinton, he extended his hand to this strange gentleman cordially and said:
“I believe that I have the honor of addressing M. Pierre La Fitte.”
“That’s what I am called,” replied the stranger.
“Very well, sir,” continued Andre. “I will take you to my quarters as I understand that you are on a secret mission.”
When Major Andre had received the despatches there was one in cipher marked “important” and it read as follows:
“Whitehall, Sept. 25, 177—
“Sir: I have the honor to send on a particular secret Mission to America, our esteemed Friend, M. Pierre La Fitte.
“He accompanies this despatch and his Identity must be kept a profound Secret.
“Provide him with secret and suitable Quarters and put him in communication with General Clinton and Lord Carlisle at the earliest possible moment.
“Geo. Germaine.
“Adj’t. Gen. John Andre.”
As soon as Major Andre had conducted M. La Fitte to sleeping apartments adjoining his own, and had made the stranger welcome, he sent a courier with despatches and information to the Beekman House that M. La Fitte would be accompanied by himself to meet Lord Carlisle and the General.
La Fitte rested until nightfall when darkness would conceal his movements.
A post-chaise drew up in front of the headquarters and two gentlemen disguised in great-coats emerged from the building and made their way to the carriage.
The three miles to the Beekman House were quickly covered and the secret agent alighted with Major Andre. The two approached the mansion and a sentry challenged them, but the Adjutant was recognized and allowed to enter. A liveried footman announced the two to the General who greeted them eagerly in the reception room.
“We are gratified to have you with us, Mr. Barclugh, and we believe that the nature of your mission will not let you remain in our midst very long.”
“I am glad to hear you address me by my own name, General Clinton,” responded Barclugh. “My voyage has been tedious, indeed, under my assumed name of M. La Fitte.”
The sealed instructions on Barclugh’s mission had been forwarded by Major Andre to the Beekman House and they were as follows:
“Whitehall, 24 Sept, 177—
“Sir: I have the great Pleasure of conveying the King’s Commands, by introducing to you Mr. Roderick Barclugh who is commissioned to act as the Special Secret Agent of His Majesty to the Men of Substance among his Rebellious Colonists.
“When the Duration of the Rebellion is considered, it has been mortifying to his Majesty to have no decisive Blow inflicted to speedily suppress the rebels; and His Majesty commands me to instruct that your Assistance to the Diplomacy of Mr. Barclugh and Lord Carlisle would be most gratifying to His Royal Pleasure.
“It is a great Pleasure to me to have another Occasion of obeying the King’s Commands by desiring you to convey to Lord Carlisle, His Majesty’s approbation of His Lordship’s mission to America.
“I am, sir, your most obedient humble servant,
“Geo. Germaine.
“Sir Henry Clinton, K. B.”
Lord Carlisle was much flattered by the receipt of the King’s encouragement, although Clinton noted in the letter a slight expression of unrest over the lack of results in the war.
However, Clinton did not take all of the burden of blame on himself; Lords Howe and Cornwallis had made some of the mistakes in the Jersey Campaigns and he was willing for the diplomatists to take a hand at the subjugation of the rebels, for a while, at least. They had talked much, as usual; now let them try their skill at results.
Sir Henry had to give some instructions to his Adjutant, so he turned to Roderick Barclugh as he remarked:
“Excuse me for a few moments, Mr. Barclugh. I have some urgent matters to dispose of.”
“Certainly,” returned Barclugh as he took up a discussion of affairs with Lord Carlisle, asking:
“What is the situation here, my Lord?”
“Oh, it’s hard to convince these military people,” answered Carlisle as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of General Clinton and Andre.
“I presume so,” assented Barclugh, dryly, as he shrugged his shoulders. “But what have you done, my Lord, on your mission?” asked Barclugh.
“Oh, nothing but to wait for you,” answered Carlisle disgustedly.
“Well, we must do something very soon, or know the cause,” declared Barclugh as General Clinton approached them.
“Gentlemen,” remarked General Clinton, “we might better retire to the Council Chamber and discuss our matters there. Shall I send for Mr. Eden, my Lord?”
“Never mind Eden, General,” replied Carlisle. “Mr. Barclugh is anxious to conclude with us and be about his own mission. I know that he is impatient at least to be out of New York,” replied Carlisle bluntly.
“Very well, very well, gentlemen,” assented Clinton as he led the way to the staircase and bowed to the other two in Pickwickian fashion as he said:
“After you,” and he bowed and gestured toward the staircase with his chubby hand.
A bright fire crackled in the fireplace of a nearly square room where the diplomats were to hold council with the Commander-in-Chief; a round table in the center contained a large map of the Colonies; a half dozen straight-backed bandy-legged chairs stood around carelessly; and a corner closet with a glass door was well stocked with a choice selection of Madeira.
Here were three representatives of English authority presented with the problem of subduing the rebellious Colonies. Each one, however, had his own pet theory of serving the King, ostensibly for the glory of the King, but primarily to gain glory for himself.
Clinton could see no means of ending the war except by military subjugation; Carlisle was entirely for conciliation and Barclugh was bent on subornation. All of these theories were launched upon the Colonists at the same time by the subtle minds of George III and his advisers.
Barclugh was impatient to begin the discussion, so he pulled his chair up to the table and began to tell his story unceremoniously:
“Gentlemen, my mission is to create a diversion among the men of substance in the Colonies, and I shall do it on a commercial basis. If the military can do its part and pound the army of Mr. Washington into a defensive position and at the same time subjugate the southern Colonies as is planned by the War Lord, I will overcome the men of substance by means of finance and commerce. Their commercial instincts will overshadow the phantom of independence. The merchants will desire peace and the old order of stable money and settled commerce. They cannot resist the consideration of self-interests. Then Lord Carlisle and his commissioners can proclaim that the Colonists may have all of the political freedom and the representation that they desire, as long as they keep up their allegiance to the throne of England.
“But above all where the Colonists will fail,” concluded Barclugh, “will be in their lack of gold. When the gold of England is put in the balance, the men of substance will see the hopelessness of their cause.”
“Right you are, Mr. Barclugh!” exclaimed Lord Carlisle. “We can grant them a few titles of nobility also which they will not be able to resist.”
“But gentlemen,” added Clinton, “the military could put the forces of Mr. Washington on the defensive at once if we could only take that stronghold of West Point. That is our stumbling-block. Our ships could control the Hudson and cut New England off from the rest, if we could ascend above West Point. There lies the key to the military situation. West Point is the Gibraltar of America.
“But,” continued Clinton, “how do you propose to reach Philadelphia, Mr. Barclugh?”
“My plan is, General Clinton,” replied Barclugh, “to embark here, on one of your ships which will take me to the east shore of the Chesapeake Bay and land me in the night. I shall make my way by land through Delaware to Wilmington, thence to Philadelphia. My story shall be that I was landed by a French privateer that was cruising in these waters.”
“Very well laid, sir!” exclaimed General Clinton, rubbing his hands. “I have the very ship, the Vulture, Captain Sutherland, that can take you on board at once and proceed on the mission.”
“Gentlemen, I can conceive of nothing but success in the plans of Mr. Barclugh,” said Lord Carlisle, “and I propose that we drink to his success.”
The three plotters stood around the table and General Clinton filled each one’s glass from the buffet with his rarest Madeira, then raising his glass, the Commander of His Majesty’s forces in America, proposed a toast, which was drunk in silence:
After a few civilities exchanged by the King’s representatives, Roderick Barclugh was conducted aboard the sloop-of-war, Vulture, which was commanded to sail for the Capes of the Chesapeake and land its passenger at the earliest possible moment.
Philadelphia was in a curious state of unpatriotic sentiment during the winter of 1778. The merchants, the Quakers and wealthy landowners (whose fortunes were established) had sentiments that were decidedly pro-English. Only the leadership and influence of such men as Franklin, Mifflin, Thomson and the influx of patriotism from other Colonies through such men as Patrick Henry, Samuel Adams, Jefferson, Livingston, and the peerless actions of Washington alone saved the least spark of independence among the leading citizens. Philadelphia reeked with Loyalists. After the evacuation of the town by the British army, it was impossible for the Whigs to celebrate such a glorious event by an exclusively Whig ball. All the belles of the town embraced a list of those who had attended every social function of the British officers. They dined where the King was toasted; attended theatricals where our native land was ridiculed. Even the glorious heraldic pageant of the Meschianza claimed homage, from the belles of the leading families.
The meekness of the Quakers and their horrors of war (upon religious principle) were changed to loud acclamations of joy when the British occupied their town. Quakers shook their heads and looked religiously solemn whenever the patriots asked for money and provisions; but when the British presented their demands for supplies, the Philadelphia Quakers smiled graciously and gave without stint. The actions of many of these good people were very questionable during the trying times of the Revolution.
Into this atmosphere of Toryism Roderick Barclugh arrived from New York. Besides the secret instructions of the Governor of the Bank of England and the King’s Minister of War, Lord George Germaine, Barclugh brought with him a passport into the confidence of the leading patriots. The British secret agent had secured a letter of introduction to Charles Thomson, Secretary of Congress, from Benjamin Franklin. The French monarch had secured these credentials for Barclugh on account of the former fidelity of his family to the Pretender.
The letter was addressed as follows:
“Paris, Nov. 20, 1777.
“My dear Sir:
“With much personal satisfaction, the interests and influence of our friend M. Roderick Barclugh have been enlisted in our cause. He comes to us with the best of credentials of the French Monarch. He will represent the interests of some of France’s leading men of wealth, and is desirous of securing Letters of Marque and Reprisal from our Congress for the purpose of engaging in privateering.
“Your cordial co-operation in his affairs is solicited.
“Believe me, sir, with sentiments of unabated esteem,
“Your most obedient servant,
“B. Franklin.“Mr. Charles Thomson,
“Secretary of Congress,
“Philadelphia, Pa.”
Thus protected with the best passport obtainable, a representative of the Bank of England and of the War Lord took up his abode in Philadelphia.
Roderick Barclugh was at once introduced to the leading firm of traders and privateersmen, Milling & FitzMaurice. They received him very cordially, especially when he asked them if they would honor his drafts on account of his Bills of Exchange on the Bank of Amsterdam for twenty thousand pounds sterling. The senior member of this firm, Mr. Thomas Milling, was very gracious at once. He invited Roderick Barclugh to make any convenience out of his compting-rooms, at least, until such times as he could settle himself in his own quarters.
In 1777 Philadelphia contained about thirty thousand souls. Front Street, which ran parallel with the Delaware River, and Market Street, which ran at right angles to the river, were the principal thoroughfares for both business and residence. The merchants, traders, lawyers and doctors were principally to be found on Front Street and a few on Market Street. There were no banks in Philadelphia at that time. All the merchants had strong boxes of their own.
Roderick Barclugh engaged a house on Front Street near Market Street, one of those commodious Colonial houses used by traders at that time for both business and lodging purposes. The room on the first floor fronting on the street was used as an office for general business; and immediately in the rear of this room was the private office of Roderick Barclugh, wherein all the infamy of commercialism that “excludes alike the virtues and the prejudices that stand in the way of its interest,” held sway.
The second story of this building contained the sleeping apartments of the British agent. He had a clerk for his compting-room and a man-servant to be general lackey. He maintained no household as his meals were served him in a private dining-room at the Boar’s Head Tavern, next door. All of his affairs were maintained in great privacy. Therefore, the clerk and servant performed their daily services and lived apart from their master.
Thus situated, business began to open up for Roderick Barclugh, Financier. Characters through whom negotiations were to be developed were not lacking. Philadelphia society rankled with Toryism that threw itself into the dust at any pretext for aristocratic government. Even some of the leaders in the Whig party of the town openly supported Congress because it was to their interest, but privately could see no good in the advanced theories of democracy as upheld by Samuel Adams.
The merchant princes who had privateers scouring the seas for booty had reason for the war to continue and give them license to prey on commerce, but when order should be re-established, wished an aristocratic government for the enjoyment of their gains.
Roderick Barclugh was soon a high favorite among the merchants. Robert FitzMaurice was the Financier General of Congress, and his commercial house of Milling & FitzMaurice was being enriched in every possible channel. The credit that this public position gave him, advanced his gains in trade and privateering. His credit allowed him to build ships. Nearly every week a privateer of his commission was bringing in a richly-laden merchantman as a prize to his wharves in the Delaware. These cargoes enriched Milling & FitzMaurice to the amount of 800,000 pounds sterling while the war lasted. Is it any wonder that this firm should make loans to the Continental Congress since they were merely putting capital into their stock in trade?
One man at this time standing in the light of public opinion as the antithesis of Thomas Paine in his philosophy of Common Sense, was James Wilson, a leading lawyer of Philadelphia, and a writer of no mean abilities. He was the intimate friend of Robert FitzMaurice, and an adviser in the aristocratic plans of the financier. Whatever were the plans of the men of substance for monarchial forms in government, this clever lawyer was ever ready to advocate these principles by means of pamphlets and after-dinner speeches. He was making a fortune in the practice of law when the country was in the very throes of despair, but this Scotchman knew wherein his fat fees lay.
But Roderick Barclugh did not confine his attention to the merchants and lawyers alone in pursuing his plans. One of the channels through which he pursued the objects of his mission was a fishmonger of the town,—Sven Svenson.
In a raging snowstorm of the winter of 1772, a small Norwegian bark was making its course to the Swedish settlements of the Delaware, with a company of Swedish emigrants. The ship met an undeserved fate on the sands of the Jersey Coast. The whole ship’s company perished in the frigid blasts of a northeast gale in January, save one,—Sven Svenson, a young and vigorous Swede, eighteen years of age. He was found numb, and almost exhausted, by a party of Jersey fishermen. They cared for him and took him to their homes.
These fishermen plied in the oyster trade of Philadelphia with the oysters at that time found in the estuaries of the mouth of the Delaware River. Two trips a week with a sloop were made from Philadelphia to the oyster beds and back. In this trade, Sven at once turned his hand. He was a handy sailor-man,—industrious and saving.
At the time when Roderick Barclugh arrived in Philadelphia, one of the best known and happiest men in the town was Sven Svenson. He had taken hold of the responsible end of the oyster trade himself. Any day, in oyster season, one could find this flaxen-haired Swede pushing a wheel-barrow up and down Market Street and through Front Street,—opening a dozen here and a dozen there for passers-by. Everybody ate them on the half-shell, tempered with a squirt of pepper-“sass” from a three-cornered bottle having a goosequill through the cork. Every one liked Sven; not alone for the happy smile with which he opened you an oyster; but he gave it with a sly wink and an extra squirt of “sass,” that pleased.
The mistresses of the best households held Sven as a prime favorite, since, whenever they gave an order for a feast, they could depend upon having their orders filled. He also supplied their tastes with the best in the market.
There were no family secrets but Sven heard them through the servants, or else he happened upon those little wordy duels which occur in the best of families. Moreover, as many Swedish girls were in domestic service it was an easy matter for Sven to hear all the choice gossip of the town.
After settling himself into his bachelor quarters, one of the first things that Roderick Barclugh undertook was to take early morning walks all over the town for knowledge of the people. On several of these observation journeys, he had passed this pumpkin-faced Swede, who, on general principles, saluted every person of note with a most gracious courtesy and removal of his hat.
Barclugh, noticing how good-naturedly everybody stopped Sven’s wheel-barrow, and how many patronized his fresh oysters, recognized in this guileless vender of shellfish a master-key to all the town’s frailties. Following up his observations, the next day when he met Sven on his morning rounds,—merrily pushing his wheel-barrow up Market Street, dressed in leather breeches, white cap and apron,—the fishmonger stopped and bowed low, half recognizing Barclugh’s desire to speak.
“How do you sell your wares, my good man?” spoke Barclugh.
“Sax pence ahl vat you eet, sahr,” was the prompt reply.
“All right, let us have some of the smallest, with no pepper-sauce, my man. I like them briny. Are these from the deep salt water?” continued Barclugh, thus to draw out Sven, who bustled around to please his new customer.
With a jerky motion he opened a choice bivalve and held it up for Barclugh to eat on the half-shell.
A roguish twinkle gleamed in his eye when his customer had taken the oyster with a smack of his lips. Sven held out the other half of the shell and with his oyster knife pointing to the fine purplish coloring of the inside, said:
“Das wass a he-oeystar, and ahl maan got some by me. Van maan eet plaanty he-oeystar and papper-saass he feel strang ahl daay. Das wass samting vat halps fadder and strangtans modder.”
The Swede could have gone on about his oysters at any length as long as his customer would eat, but getting enough “he-oysters,” Barclugh handed him a sixpence and at the same time slipping a crown piece into his hand, asked:
“Do you know General Arnold?”
“Yah,” replied Sven, who looked startled and astonished as he grasped the coin, and squared himself up to tell all that he knew.
“I haf baan in dis kontry sax yahr and sax monts. My name is Sven Svenson, and my brodder’s garl varks for Mrs. Arnold. Ganral Arnold eats plaanty he-oeystar and owes me tan pound starling. Mrs. Arnold haf a strang tongue and talks to the Ganral to yump his yob and vark for dee Angleesh.”
Barclugh smiled and left Sven still eager to tell more, showing unconcern by hastily departing, yet when walking briskly along he thought to himself:
“The Swede loves money and his knowledge must be mine. Arnold can not long resist his wife and my offers too.”
After the dinner party at the FitzMaurice’s, the next morning was ominous with sullen clouds in the Arnold homestead. The servants were gliding from room to room in sober mien; conversations were carried on in whispers. The Madam was served with breakfast in her room, and the General had no appetite. The office of the Commandant of Philadelphia was streaked with strata of dark blue vitriolic language.
The first caller was Sven Svenson, who approached the sentinel before the General’s office door. The two fell into conversation.
“Haf Ganral Arnold been up?” asked Sven as he came near the sentinel, with his hat in his hand.
“I reckon not, Sven, he was mighty weak-kneed when he came home last night,” was the sentinel’s reply.
“Das varking maan haf to vark and vark for hees pay, and de Ganral eets and dreenks ahl day ant ahl night. Hee talks so hard at mee I haf to valk oudt ant svore I vas beat.”
“How much does the General owe you now, Sven?” asked the sentinel in an undertone.
“Tan pound starling for goot oeystar vat Mistrees Arnold vants for hair beeg koumpanee.”
“Ha, ha! Sven, you are in luck it’s not more,” blurted out the honest-faced Virginian who was standing guard at the Commandant’s office. “This Connecticut apothecary and horse-trader has succeeded to a position where he can gratify his desires for extravagant living, but if he keeps on in his present course, he will ruin our cause; but he has a spouse who leads him a good race, Sven.”
“Yah, Mistrees Arnold vent to ahl dee baals and deenirs vid Major Andre and dee Angleesh offeecirs as vas here een Pheeladalpheeia laast veentir,” said the Swede.
“Hush, hush, Sven, here comes the General,” whispered the sentinel, as he came to attention and saluted General Arnold who passed to his small office building next his residence.
Arnold did not look at Sven, but a scowl came over his brow as he passed into the little office room, slamming the door behind him.
Sven then approached the door very cautiously and rapped. An imperious voice inside roared:
“Come in.”
The first greeting Sven got was:
“What the devil you want here? Haven’t I told you not to come around here and bother me? I haven’t any money. So that settles it. Get right out of here.”
“But, Ganral Arnold, I need some maaney to——”
“Money, money,” roared the Commander as he arose from his seat and paced up and down the floor, never heeding the Swede. “Money! It is the nightmare of my life. I went to that dinner to drown the thoughts of the cursed stuff, but the only thing said by the nabobs was to get it, and the need of it comes upon me at arising. By thunder! I shall get it! I was never born to bear these pangs.
“Sven,” turning to the Swede, “go and tell Johnson, in the kitchen, to bring me a hot rum and have one yourself.”
“Ahl right, Ganral,” replied Sven, as he rubbed his hands gleefully, and made his retreat, glad to have a whole skin left.
The next caller was Captain Samuel Risk, of the Privateer Holker.
“Good morning, General. I’ve just come in with the snuggest kind of a prize,—a West Indian brig loaded out for home with sugar, rum and coffee for London merchants. She will net the firm of Milling & FitzMaurice ten thousand pounds sterling, and I have a neat little share besides.”
“What! ten thousand pounds sterling? Is it possible? Why, that firm of Milling & FitzMaurice must be very prosperous. I wish I could get into a little of that kind of business myself. My expenses of living are very great, Captain, and I must make something by commerce.”
“Well, well, General, that is a very easy matter.”
“Why, Captain, are there any chances?”
“Chances? Bless your soul, plenty, sir, plenty sir,” said the Captain. “All that we need are stern men, not too scrupulous and who can do a thing in such a way that the right hand will not know what the left hand does.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Arnold. “Why, sir, you know I used to be a trader myself at one time,—a New England trader, sir. Before the war, sir, I used to drive my team and sleigh by way of Lake George to Canada and trade Yankee notions for horses. Then I would drive the horses overland and take them on a brig to the West Indies and trade them there for sugar, rum and molasses. So you see I am a trader, sir,—a New England horse-trader.”
“Well, if you are a horse-trader, General, you will do. We have an order from a merchant in New York for two thousand barrels of flour and we need a passport for the proper individual to pass through our lines to New York and return in order to effect the necessary business arrangements. If the trade goes through successfully we can afford to give you one third of the profits. We expect confidently to make about $10,000 out of the transaction in gold, and your share, General, will surely be $3000.”
“That’s merely a business transaction between private individuals and it will harm no one. But, Captain, could you make any advances on the profits, for I am very much in need of $1000 to-day and if it matters not to you, I will ask you for this amount now?” eagerly questioned Arnold.
“I would willingly make it $1000, General, only I have just $500 of gold with me; but I can give you that,” as he counts out the gold on the desk for General Arnold and keenly looks at him.
“Very well, Captain, that will help me out. It is settled,” said Arnold, as he grasped the gold and put it into his pockets with avidity.
“But remember, simply give me the name of the individual and I will furnish him with the passport through our lines, but do not let me know anything about his business.”
“That’s well, General, for commerce knows no country,” were the concluding remarks of Captain Risk as he bowed and started for the door. “I will be here to-morrow for the document. Good day, sir.”
“Good day, sir, but bring the other $500 if possible; I need it,” contended Arnold.
“If possible, General,” was the response, and the privateersman left Arnold to go directly to the office of Roderick Barclugh.
The FitzMaurice dinner and the reception at Dorminghurst were revelations to Roderick Barclugh. He learned that Arnold had a passion for luxury and no discretion as to its cost; then he became convinced that the lawyers and clergy and merchants feared a democratic form of government.
Roderick Barclugh was possessed of wonderful resources to accomplish his ends. The next morning very early he sent his clerk for Captain Samuel Risk of the Privateer Holker, in which ship he held the controlling interest. Arnold’s cupidity must be tried at once.
As Captain Risk came into Barclugh’s private office, the first sound that greeted his ears was:
“Good morning, Captain Risk, can you depend on your crew to transfer two thousand barrels of flour to a neutral ship flying the ensign of Holland in a convenient harbor off Long Island? There’s $20,000 to be divided up in it.”
“Yes, sir, I can do it. State your necessities in the case. What will be the ship’s share?” was the prompt answer of the intrepid Captain.
“From private advices, a merchant in New York wants the flour for his account. I need a passport to get to New York to have the money advanced and the business concluded. Arnold needs money and his share in the transaction will be $3000, the ship’s share $10,000 and protection from capture guaranteed. See Arnold at once, and here is $500 to advance him for his promise to deliver the passport.”
“Agreed, Mr. Barclugh, and I’ll have that vainglorious upstart tied up in this business within an hour. I shall return here at once with the prize,” was the reply of the gingery, little, red-faced Captain as he went out the door on his mission.
Barclugh turned to his clerk in the compting-room and sent him to engage two thousand barrels of flour for export on the Brigantine Holker from Milling & FitzMaurice, who now held merchandise for the account of Roderick Barclugh in large sums—the result of successful privateering cruises. But as a matter of fact the flour shipment was merely a cloak to carry on a deeper scheme. Barclugh had constant communication with Sir Henry Clinton, the British Commander, but he needed a safe passport for himself to New York and return in order to explain the details of his plot to ensnare Arnold with British gold. He must go in person to the British Commander-in-Chief for the matter was of such delicate and intricate nature that there must be no mishaps.
The flour transaction would simply pay the expenses of the enterprise, because the difference in the price of flour between New York and Philadelphia was twelve dollars a barrel, and the supply was very short at the former place.
While Barclugh was revolving these problems in his mind, Captain Risk returned and stated in his straightforward manner:
“The shark is securely hooked, and is desperately in need of money. That young and gay wife of his is an expensive luxury. He has promised the passport, taken the $500 and wants $500 more.”
“That is too much to advance. He will have to wait for the balance till your return. The $3000 promised him will lead him on to new hopes in extravagance and he will be eager for more when he gets his full share. Ha, ha! so he took the gold eagerly, did he? Prosperity intoxicates him. He has desperate courage, and cares not for consequences to himself,—nor to others. He is capable of as much evil as good to his cause. Let’s see, Captain, I’ll have the name for the passport ready to-morrow. You may get your ship ready and load on the flour; for, if the trade falls through, you can slip down to Havana with your cargo.”
“That’s well, Mr. Barclugh, I’ll have my crew shipped and the cargo loaded and be lying in the stream awaiting your orders inside the week.”
“Very well, Captain, if you should go to Havana you will bring home one of those West Indian fellows and then you will be able to retire and buy an estate,” was the mirthful turn of Barclugh’s planning.
“Ay, ay, sir. Then when I’m land-sick I can sell a farm and go to sea. What a luxury that would be! But I was never born to be a land-lubber, sir. Good day, I’ll get the passport to-morrow.”
“Good day, Captain,” said Barclugh, as he followed the skipper to the door.
“We must use Arnold for our business,” rang in the ears of Captain Risk from Barclugh, while he walked jauntily off to go aboard his ship.
Captain Risk was astir early next morning, called at the office of Roderick Barclugh, and secured the fictitious name for the passport. He then at once went to the office of General Arnold on Market Street.
Arnold was in a happier mood than the day previous. The expectancy of an easy $3000 had given him a chance to see some relief from his hopeless financial entanglements.
From the developments of the past few days he thus reasoned to himself, as he paced nervously up and down his small office floor:
“Wherever that $3000 is to come from there surely must be more for me if my part of the contract were zealously performed. But who can be the person or persons that are carrying through these transactions? Captain Risk is only the skipper of the Privateer Holker; who has the money? I’ll find out, by thunder! Just give Arnold a chance. These pangs of debt gnaw at the very core of my mental existence. I would be honorable, but the slavery of financial obligations drives me to desperate means of relief. Money! money!! money!!! What would I not do just now for 20,000 pounds in gold? Ha, ha! General Washington would not dare to reprimand me for my extravagance. I would not dodge every one then, fearing a demand for that which I have not. Then,—O God, my wife’s social position would be secure. To get money nowadays you must look for it among those who have it,—not among the poverty-stricken Colonists. The English have money and, by thunder, they have gratitude for the services of their generals. If I had been fighting on the English side I would not now have been begging. I would have had a title,—Lord Arnold of Saratoga,—an estate, a pension, and a settled position for myself and family for such services as I rendered at Bemis Heights. Bah! what reward have I now in fighting for the rights of mankind? I ought to fight for the glory of a King; then I would be sensible; Mrs. Arnold tells me so, and she must be right. But then, could I have fought in blinding snowstorm from cake to cake of ice, and travelled over snow in bare and bleeding feet, starved and bled from gaping wounds, for money? Never! never!! But then I was free, reckless, and wedded to the profession of a soldier,—now I am linked to the ambition and tastes of an aristocratic lady. As a man to whom shall be my duty,—to my country or to my wife? Arnold was never a coward,—my wife shall prevail!”
In such a reverie of conflicting thoughts was Arnold wrapped, when a loud rap at the office door caused him to face about and, assuming a military posture, sharply command:
“Come in.”
“Good morning, General Arnold, I am here for the passport, and we are ready to load the flour and to start the messenger to New York. The messenger’s name is Pierre La Fitte,” was the direct, businesslike way in which the little sea-captain approached Arnold.
“Very well, Captain Risk, but who are ‘we’ of whom you speak? You realize that you are simply a sea-faring man, and very likely to turn up in Davy Jones’ locker; if, by any possible mishap, this messenger, Pierre La Fitte, be intercepted, and any suspicions aroused by any papers found, I could be compromised at once, and I would have no guarantee of fair treatment. I must deal with your principal, whoever he is.”
“Well said, General Arnold, you must be secured and protected. Remain here and you will have this business all settled within an hour, and you may have protection or whatever else you want for that matter. Good day, sir,” was the snappy answer of the little skipper, as he read the whole import of Arnold’s fears, when he suddenly departed to let him wonder what was to happen next.
When the skipper gained the outside, he explained the situation to himself, as he reasoned it out.
“Ah, he’s a shark! At first he wanted to know nothing of the transaction, now he wants to know all. But, howsomever, that Barclugh knows his business and now that I have hooked the fish, Barclugh will land him, shark and all that he is.”
When the door shut behind Captain Risk, and Arnold had found himself addressed, explained, and answered all in one jerk, so to speak, he drew a long breath and said to himself:
“Whew! what’s up now? What must these people believe me to be? There must be money where Risk does his business. Those privateersmen are the only ones who are getting rich in Philadelphia to-day. There’s Robert FitzMaurice, Financier General of Congress, his warehouses are full of captured merchandise and I know that he would sell flour to anybody, even indirectly to the enemy, if he could thereby show a good balance on his ledger account. Philadelphia, in traffic with the enemy, is rotten. I must now know where it is going on, and who is at it. Maybe, I was too eager with Captain Risk. He’s gone without leaving a clue. I guess my chance is up. When I actually must have money, what a fool I was to ask for his principal in the matter. I might have known that Risk would not have divulged his principal. But I wonder why they sent Risk to me for a passport, anyway? This business has been done before and they did not need a passport. For some reason they need me. Therein lies my chance, and by thunder, Mrs. Arnold will be rich yet, even though I used to be a New England horse-trader.”
While Arnold had fears and hopes of his success in mind, Barclugh had listened to Arnold’s request as given by Captain Risk and after the concise narrative, Barclugh simply said:
“Captain, you have done your duty. Leave the rest to me. Load your ship, and sail with the flour to the appointed rendezvous at the entrance of Sag Harbor.”
“That’s well, Mr. Barclugh. I’m better at running a blockade or overhauling a lime-juicer than in handling a horse-trading shark,” was the blurting opinion of the Yankee skipper, as he tripped out of the compting-room of Roderick Barclugh,—little knowing that he had played the preliminary part in a nation’s drama.
The time was momentous on Arnold’s hands as he pulled at his hair to think that he had lost his opportunity with Captain Risk, when the door of the office opened, and there stood Roderick Barclugh.
Arnold, wondering who was Risk’s principal, stared in amazement at Barclugh’s presence. But Barclugh at once knew that boldness was his weapon to use.
“Why, good morning, Mr. Barclugh, I am very glad to see you,” said Arnold. “Will you be seated?” as he walked to the door and told the orderly to admit no one, and then bolted the door behind him.
“General Arnold,” said Barclugh, “do you mean business about this flour transaction?”
Arnold put on his most gracious air and replied:
“I am entirely in touch with the enterprise, Mr. Barclugh, but I was obliged to require some token of good faith on the part of the principals. So you see I could not give Captain Risk the passport until I had arranged with the responsible parties as to the ways and means of getting out of the scrape in case of complications arising.”
“What token do you require, General Arnold, on my part?” coolly asked Barclugh.
“Oh, that is a simple matter for men of substance, Mr. Barclugh. You see I have bought an estate on the Schuylkill and am in debt; I keep up my house in town and my pay is entirely inadequate for the tastes of my family, so, if you could loan me a few thousand pounds in gold, I could serve you on this occasion and possibly on others.”
“You are very right, General, about your pay being too small to support a gentleman’s family. To be candid with you, what you need is money. If I were to put you in the way of securing twenty thousand pounds sterling, would you accept the proposition? Merely a proposition to do your country a lasting benefit.”
“My dear Mr. Barclugh, I am dying daily of chagrin, and money is my only salvation. I would be willing to die ignominiously if I could only secure my wife that much fortune.”
“Arnold, would you go over to the other party? Would you consider consequences? Would you honor the obligation?”
“Barclugh, a man that is the slave of the need of money has no country, has no conscience, has no will of his own. I am a slave. My wife’s desires torment me as a lash. The abyss opens before my eyes. My country’s cause can never prevail against the wealth and resources of Britain. To be loyal to America I would die a pauper in a lost cause. To serve Britain I would gain my desires,—victory and riches. The die is cast, sir, command me!”
“You have now arrived at a sensible conclusion, General Arnold,” argued Barclugh. “There is no use for you to be a beggar after such abilities as you have shown and such services as you have rendered your country. I am the direct representative of His Majesty, George III. You prepare the passports. Be candid with me, and I can relieve your financial difficulties. I will communicate with you in a few days; in the meantime, come down to my office, and I will loan you whatever money you need temporarily.
“Good day, sir,” concluded Barclugh, as he left Arnold’s office, rejoicing to himself at Arnold’s total subjection to money.
Whenever conspirators engage to carry out a plot, they at once begin to construct arguments justifying means to their ends.
At the present day we observe oily worded arguments made in the public press to gild the corruption of virtue by the influence and power of money; and no flight of the imagination is required to determine exactly the same influence at work to-day in our money-bag circles which shows its corruption in the following letter addressed to Arnold in 1778:
“Dear General:
“Among the Americans who have joined the rebel standard, there are very many good citizens whose only object has been the happiness of their country. Such, then, will not be influenced by motives of private interest to abandon the cause they have espoused. They are now offered everything which can render the Colonies really happy and this is the only compensation worthy their virtue.
“The American Colonies shall have their Parliament, composed of two Chambers, with all its members of American birth. Those of the upper house shall have titles and rank similar to those of the House of Peers in England. All their laws, and particularly such as relate to money matters, shall be the production of this assembly, with the concurrence of a Viceroy. Commerce in every part of the globe subject to British sway shall be as free to the people of the thirteen Colonies as to the English of Europe. They will enjoy, in every sense of the phrase, the blessings of good government. They shall be sustained, in time of need, by all the power necessary to uphold them, without being themselves exposed to the dangers or subjected to the expenses that are always inseparable from the conditions of a state.
“Such are the terms proffered by England at the very moment when she is displaying extraordinary efforts to conquer the obedience of her Colonies.
“Shall America remain, without limitation of time, a scene of desolation,—or are you desirous of enjoying peace and all the blessings of her train? Shall your provinces, as in former days, flourish under the protection of the most puissant nation of the world? Or will you forever pursue that shadow of liberty which still escapes from your hands, even when in the act of grasping it? And how soon would that very liberty, once obtained, turn into licentiousness, if it be not under the safeguards of a great European power? Will you rely upon the guarantee of France? They among you whom she has seduced may assume that her assistance will be generous and disinterested, and that she will never exact from you a servile obedience. They are frantic with joy at the alliance already established, and promise you that Spain will immediately follow the example of France. Are they ignorant that each of these has an equal interest in keeping you under, and will combine to accomplish their end? Thousands of men have perished; immense resources have been exhausted; and yet since that fated alliance the dispute has become more embittered than ever. Everything urges us to put a conclusion to dissensions,—not less detrimental to the victors than to the vanquished; but desirable as peace is, it cannot be negotiated between us as between two independent powers; it is necessary that a decisive advantage should put Britain in a condition to dictate the terms of reconciliation. It is her interest, as well as her policy, to make these as advantageous to one as the other; but it is at the same time advisable to arrive at it without any unnecessary waste of that blood of which we are already as sparing as though it were again our own.
“There is but General Arnold who can surmount obstacles so great as these. A man of so much courage will never despair of the Republic, even when every door to a reconciliation seems sealed.
“Render then, brave General, this important service to your country! The Colonies can not sustain much longer the unequal strife. Your troops are perishing in misery. They are badly armed, half naked and crying for bread. The efforts of Congress are futile against the languor of the people. Your fields are untilled, trade languishes, learning dies. The neglected education of a whole generation is an irreparable loss to society. Your youth, torn by thousands from their rustic pursuits of useful employments, are mown down by war. Such as survive have lost the vigor of their prime or are maimed in battle; the greater part bring back to their families the idleness and corrupt manners of the camp. Let us put an end to so many calamities; you and ourselves have the same origin, the same language, the same laws. We are inaccessible in our island; and you, the masters of a vast and fertile territory, have no other neighbors than the people of our loyal Colonies. We possess rich establishments in every quarter of the globe, and reign over the fairest portions of Hindustan. The ocean is our home, and we pass across it as a monarch traversing his dominions. From the Northern to the Southern pole, from the East to the West our vessels find everywhere a neighboring harbor belonging to Great Britain. So many islands, so many countries acknowledging our sway, are all ruled by a uniform system that bears on every feature the stamp of liberty, yet it is well adapted to the genius of different nations and various climes.
“While the continental powers ruin themselves by war, and are exhausted in erecting the ramparts that separate them from each other, our bulwarks are our ships. They enrich us; they protect us; they provide us as readily with the means of invading our enemies as of succoring our friends.
“Beware, then, of breaking forever the link and ties of friendship whose benefits are proven by the experience of a hundred and fifty years. Time gives to human institutions a strength which what is new can only attain in its turn, by the lapse of ages. Royalty itself experiences the need of this useful prestige, and the line that has reigned over us for the past sixty years has been illustrious for ten centuries.
“United in equality, we will rule the universe; we will hold it bound, not by arms and violence, but by the ties of commerce,—the lightest and most gentle bonds that human kind can wear.”
Allowing sufficient time for the arguments of this letter to crystallize his determination, Arnold was entrapped. Barclugh had analyzed what effect the document would have on Arnold’s mind; he knew that vanity alone would lead him to commit treason on the pretext that he might save his country from desolation and ruin, so that he could be the master-key in the great drama. To end the war at one stroke and receive the pecuniary gratitude of the English government and to stand out in history like Brutus, or Monk, or Marlborough, as the creator of kings or governments, was the dream of an adventurous spirit. Arnold loved dramatic display. Battlefields had provided him a theatre for the exercise of his valor; garrison duty at Philadelphia had given him the allurements of social dissipations; the need of money and the glitter of kingly promises were for him the crucial tests of honor which sunk his career.
Roderick Barclugh was in Arnold’s office the next day at midnight, and thus addressed his victim:
“General Arnold, you of all Americans can end this cruel war with the mother country. So if you receive twenty thousand pounds in gold and a commission as General in the British Army, and a pension of two thousand pounds sterling per annum for life, what can you do to endow your countrymen with the blessings of peace?”
“Mr. Barclugh,” said Arnold, “I shall be inflicting enduring good upon humanity to stop the vain sacrifices of Americans in a forlorn cause. I would re-establish trade and friendly relations at home and abroad. The name of Arnold would be a synonym for the savior of this country. There would be no need, then, for a Washington. I would be the founder of great prosperity and happiness, and my natal day would be cherished by the,—well, by the nobility, anyway.
“However, I have thought of the best way for us to accomplish the object: you see, West Point is the citadel of American military hopes; if they were to lose that stronghold, New England could be cut off from the rest of the Colonies. The control of the upper Hudson falls with West Point. Communications would then be cut between New England and the Southern Colonies. The rebel forces would then be merely local bands, and the commanders partisan leaders. Then another British force could invade Virginia and each section be subdued in detail, but after the fall of West Point the Colonists would be glad to make terms of peace. Bloodshed would then be stopped.
“I can secure the command of West Point from the Commander-in-Chief, and when once in the coveted position, then Americans and American destiny will be at my feet.”
“Your plan is an inspired one, General Arnold, and here are two thousand pounds in Bills of Exchange on the Bank of Amsterdam, which you can get cashed at my office as a token of my faith in you. Now, with my passport in my pocket I shall start at once by way of West Point for New York, and carry the good news to General Clinton. Be sure and communicate with General Washington at once for your assignment to your new command,” were the parting words of Roderick Barclugh, as he mounted his horse at daylight to begin his journey through the Jersey Highlands, under the disguise and name of Pierre La Fitte.
When Roderick Barclugh left the office of General Arnold, he mounted his horse and took the Germantown road. The hour was just before dawn, and much fatigue after the exciting negotiations with the traitor caused Barclugh to ride briskly, while serious meditations flitted through his brain:
“What will Washington think of Arnold’s request for assignment to West Point? I must pave the way for Arnold’s success. If I could only meet General Washington, being armed with the letter of Robert FitzMaurice, I would encourage the General to favor Arnold and explain away his unrest at Philadelphia. I could praise his deeds at Saratoga; how he longed for active service; his marriage and its financial obligations. The desire to please his wife entangled Arnold in unwarranted expenditures. To assign such a valuable leader to a post away from all allurements of society would preserve a valuable leader for active service after his wound had healed.”
Thus he mused, while his horse alternately galloped and walked, until he realized that the sun had risen, and he found that he had reached the seat of his friend, Dr. William Greydon, who had urged him to stop at Dorminghurst, whenever he should have business that way.
Knowing that he might have greater need of his horse later on in the course of his perilous journey, he considered it wisdom to stop and spend the day for rest and gather his thoughts and energy for a long ride the next day. He also wished to travel incognito and the less he stopped at public houses, the better his purpose was helped along.
To stop at Dorminghurst did not require any length of argument, as Barclugh was young and still susceptible. Neither had he forgotten Miss Mollie Greydon who was at the dinner party of the Financier General; Barclugh recalled her beauty and intellectual qualities.
Riding between the hemlocks to the mansion, Roderick Barclugh was struck with the taste of this American home. As he dismounted he was greeted by the master of the house on the portico, while his horse was attended by a watchful black servant. The welcome he received was in true Colonial fashion:
“At last, Mr. Barclugh, you have made good your promise to break bread with me. I know that you must have risen early, so we can breakfast at once,” was the greeting of Dr. William Greydon.
Turning to the servant, Dr. Greydon continued:
“Care for Mr. Barclugh’s horse and bring his saddle-bags into the house.”
“Really,” replied Barclugh, “starting on this journey last night, I was detained with a friend arranging my business until early morning. I am on a long journey to the Commander-in-Chief at Fishkill, and I thought best to make my journey in short stages at first.”
“You are wise, Mr. Barclugh,” replied his host, “and I am sure Dorminghurst is honored with your presence.” Bowing courteously as Mr. Barclugh entered the great hallway, Dr. Greydon ushered his guest to the staircase, and left him in the hands of a trusted man-servant who led the way to the guest-chamber.
After the customary formalities of presenting himself to his host and family in the library, breakfast was served in the rear hall.
The easy manners of gentlemen’s families during the Revolution were a blessing to travelers. Open houses, hearty welcome to soldiers, was the rule among patriots, and hospitality was as free and unpolluted as sparkling spring water.
What impressed Roderick Barclugh as remarkable, was the frank and unaffected manner in which he was greeted by the daughter and brilliant wife of Dr. Greydon. Their “thee’s” and “thou’s” were not assumed in addressing a guest who happened in; for the Greydons had traveled in Europe, and Dr. Greydon was a graduate in Medicine of Cambridge University.
There is risk to young women in early morning calls. If ever a young woman is seen in her true self, that time is at her own breakfast table. No one appreciated such a fact more keenly than Roderick Barclugh. Therefore, when he presented himself for this early breakfast he greeted Mrs. Greydon and Miss Mollie with these words:
“Miss Mollie, I am surprised to find you astir so early.”
“Why!” exclaimed the young Quakeress, “Mr. Barclugh, I have already translated forty lines of Horace for father, as well as directed the churning for mother.”
“Wonderful! Bravo!! Miss Greydon, I have much respect for the young woman who can combine the graces of odes of the greatest Latin poet along with the duties of domestic economy, and all before breakfast,” exclaimed Barclugh. “I believe, however, that Horace sings of the vine, the bees, the grain, the cattle, and the thrifty housewife. I am really delighted to find some one so practically refined,” continued the guest.
Mollie Greydon was a perfectly happy and healthy girl, who enjoyed being busy and useful. She was dressed this morning in a neat and becoming homespun of her father’s loom. Her form was well rounded and her face was animated and possessed of one of those kindly benevolent expressions that are heaven-born. Her eyes were hazel-brown, large and deep-set, which indicated stable character and mental penetration. Her hair was brown, and worn combed back, high and plain.
There was nothing of the ascetic or complaining nature about her. She was a wholesomely good and reasonable girl, ready and willing to accept any station in life in which she happened to be cast,—always ready to perform her full duty, no matter in what sphere. If she were linked to the fortunes of an honorable pioneer or to the luxury of a Colonial gentleman, she would have no grievances. Mollie Greydon was conscious of her ability to render her full duty in life and therefore the equipoise of her countenance and the grace of her mind and body were discernible in whatever she did. She had much energy, but still had discretion to keep much in reserve. She had lively passions and a temper which any worthy person must respect, but the judgment in its use was the work of a master mind. She quarreled with no one but the open enemies of her country, and the advocates of aristocracy. Her young days had been intermingled with all the contemporary men of ideas, since she was her father’s companion, and always at his side. The social and domestic life of Dorminghurst, the intellectual atmosphere of her home, and the advantages of meeting all the distinguished men of the times around her father’s fireside, had rounded out the qualities of a gifted young woman, which she was.
The breakfast was plain and substantial, composed of hominy and milk, and sugar-cured ham, with a corn cake and a cup of coffee; also potatoes that were boiled. Roderick Barclugh had an unerring opportunity to study the bearing of Miss Mollie in all its details. He asked her several pointed questions for the only purpose of sounding her philosophy on current affairs, and on her views of life in the colonies.
Among other questions one was addressed to her with an earnest gaze from Barclugh’s penetrating eyes:
“Miss Mollie, have you no young lady companions near at hand to help you pass the time?”
“No, Mr. Barclugh,” came the prompt and decided answer of the young Quakeress. “I have very few. My father and my mother are my most constant companions. One tutors me in the classics, almost daily, and the other instructs me in all the duties of our household. I am, therefore, very busy at my books, the spinning, the weaving, the oversight of the dairy and the poultry-yards. I have my circle of friends in Philadelphia and I attend some of the entertainments given there; but in these stirring times, when our countrymen need clothes and food, I owe all of my energy to them.”
“Well, well, Miss Greydon, you are truly in earnest about this war. Let me see,” laughingly remarked Barclugh, “do you really believe that the Colonists can possibly succeed in their efforts to win independence? Will not your zeal have been spent in vain?”
“Why, Mr. Barclugh,” came her reply in girlish enthusiasm, “you remember that Wolsey, in the time of Henry VIII, said:
And I can assure you that I believe when I serve this country for the principles of independence and equality of the people, I am serving my God. So I have heard Mr. Franklin say to father, and he must be right.”
Turning to his host and hostess at each end of the breakfast table, and to Miss Greydon, who sat opposite, Barclugh looked at each one earnestly, while he remarked:
“This young lady must be inspired.”
With the purpose of disclaiming any credit to herself, the young lady, with all the sincerity of a child, laughed with animation, as she tried to explain her wisdom:
“No, Mr. Barclugh, you must not think so. For the past five years we have heard nothing discussed at our tables, at our firesides, and on every occasion, nothing but the ‘Rights of Man,’ ‘Common Sense,’ ‘Age of Reason,’ ‘The Declaration of Independence,’ ‘The Tyranny of Kings,’ and ‘The Corruption of Aristocracy,’ until their doctrines have become household words. I have imbibed them, absorbed them, and discussed them, so I feel that every word I utter is the truth.”
Dr. and Mrs. Greydon let the younger people occupy each other’s attention and listened with smiles of satisfaction at the readiness with which their only daughter was able to expound the sentiments of the household.
However, Dr. Greydon turned to his guest, saying:
“Mr. Barclugh, I must let you know that Mollie is my boy.”
“Well, Miss Greydon, there is no mistaking two things; that you are right and that you are sincere. After this, you may be sure that you have my respect and my esteem,” were the admissions of Roderick Barclugh, and a deep emotion came over his whole frame, as the crimson blush of blood rose out of his body, and enveloped his neck and ears and face.
Here was an unaffected and honest Colonial girl of nineteen, who had brought this diplomat to bay.
While thinking of his journey and mission the thought flashed through his mind:
“Magna est veritas et prevalibit.”
Nothing but monosyllables could Barclugh utter after this upheaval in his breast, produced by the wisdom and truth stated by the innocent young soul who sat opposite him at table. Small-talk about the farm and city relieved his predicament until breakfast was over.
Dr. Greydon and Barclugh enjoyed a social pipe in the library after breakfast, until the Doctor suggested:
“Since you have been awake all night the best thing for you to do is to take a rest.”
The suggestion was eagerly taken up by Barclugh, for he needed rest and seclusion. Therefore, he excused himself, and went to his chamber and sat down in a large chair with a resignation becoming a better cause than his.
He began to think of the excitement of ensnaring Arnold the night before, and then the voice of that beautiful girl:
rang in his ears.
He jumped up and placed his clenched fists in his hair, and exclaimed:
“My God, I am blushing again! What ails me? I tremble. Oh, that face! that voice! those words deep in wisdom! Great God! I am in love!”
He paced up and down his chamber. He took off his shoes and outer garments and lay down to sleep, but he could not. He tossed from side to side; he jumped up and sat on the chair, but no repose could he find.
“What can I do? Shall I throw everything overboard? Shall I renounce my mission, and ask Miss Greydon to be my wife? No, I can not do that, for the traitor, Arnold, has me in his power. If I proceed in this nefarious business, my life will not be right to meet this pure and innocent soul on an equality.”
Straightening himself up and gazing out of the window, Barclugh saw the birds carrying straws to build their nests, and the bees bringing honey to the hive in the garden, and he mused no longer but walked to and fro as he resolved:
“Come, Barclugh, brace thyself. Ah, I shall proceed. I shall attempt both ends. If one fail, perhaps the other will succeed. I know which one I most desire.
“But I must not linger here. To hear her voice again I shall be lost. I must go very soon; yes, at once.”
Barclugh had now calmed and he lay down again and slept soundly for two hours.
Awakening with a start, he dressed in haste, and found his host and informed him that the urgency of this business would not let him rest longer.
Leaving his compliments for his hostess and Miss Mollie with the Doctor, Barclugh mounted his horse and galloped down the avenue of hemlocks to the public road, and took the direction of Trenton on the Delaware.
The dearest thought of an American patriot is the fact that, no matter how deep and powerful the plots for aristocratic forms of government, these ideas wither and die in embryo on the free soil of America. The dreams of a Fairfax in Virginia, the Patroons in New York, a Blennerhasset in the Ohio Valley, were never to be realized in the free air of America. The principle of primogeniture found no favor in the new land of hope and refuge. The Covenanters in Pennsylvania and the valley of Virginia, the Puritans in New England, the Quakers in Pennsylvania, the Catholics in Maryland, the Debtors in Georgia, all left British soil with grievances which were to be righted in the wilderness.
All of those who were favored with prosperity remained at home, and they were largely the first-born sons, or entailed heirs. The underlings cleared out to the wild-woods. How could the mother country expect, therefore, conformity to her system of aristocratic estates, if those who sought the Colonies left home smarting under the inequality shown to the younger sons? The laws of Britain had, through generations, elevated the first-born and pauperized the junior offspring, till at last the American Revolution could with propriety be named the uprising of the younger sons of Britain for equality. Can Englishmen wonder, therefore, to-day, that Americans have no patience with English aristocracy and royalty? Any statesman who would emulate English social systems in America may be prepared for an avalanche.
However, there is one relic of old England’s musty law tomes with which the younger sons may again have to measure swords, if not settled by peaceful and constitutional means. That is a law analogous to the law of entailed estates, which maintains inequality in like manner between individuals. The growth has been gradual and unseen until recent years; but at the same time producing rumblings in the hearts of the unfavored persons. Primogeniture maintained inequality between brothers and sisters in the family; the other creates an inequality in finance and commerce, in perpetuo, by means of an artificial person, endowed with a legal immortality which destroys all individualism. That fiction of vested rights is the stock corporation under the genius and authority of the Common Law of England.
No matter how safe Americans may feel against the introduction of aristocratic laws and forms of government, still, spasmodically and industriously, attempts have been made to supplant the idea of equality before the law, by legislation for the favored ones.
The mission of Roderick Barclugh to the new world was to crush out the struggle for liberty by means of bribery and at the same time to imitate those laws of England, which would bind the social conditions of England upon the Colonists forever. Against the rebels, the outcome of the War for Independence seemed such a foregone conclusion, that already Roderick Barclugh was scheming to advance his own social prestige which his zeal for the King of England promised. He expected to be Viceroy of the Colonies, and to receive the title of Lord Barclugh of Allegheny.
The matter had been so far decided and planned that the letter to Arnold explicitly stated that the Parliament of the Colonies would have an upper house of Lords of the Realm who were to receive their patents of nobility from the King of England. The thought of independence was ridiculed by the English; so what could more properly occupy the thoughts of Barclugh than his exalted position when England should subdue the rebels?
His mind was set upon creating one of the most extensive landed estates to which noble blood could lay claim. He would receive one of those royal grants of land out of the public domain in Western Pennsylvania, equal to a principality. He would build such a castle that its renown would live through ages. The tenantry would be bound to the soil from generation to generation, paying their rents for the privilege of bare existence upon the lands of a noble lord. The miller’s son would be a miller, the blacksmith’s boy would be a blacksmith, the ploughman’s boy would be a ploughman, toiling without hope and without ambition; for the privilege of equality would be denied them under the English social system.
The consuming thought of Barclugh in all these stirring panoramas was the founding of a noble family that would emblazon the crest of Barclugh high in the fields of statesmanship and war.
But how was such a problem to be accomplished? Should he wait until his honors had fallen to him, and then go home and ally his name with one of the great houses and names of English nobility? Or should he seek among the best blood in the Colonies, a lady out of the representatives of wealth, gentility, and intellect, because such an one would be inured to the customs and privations of pioneers which a grande dame from ancestral halls could never endure? Either one course or the other must be chosen. For land and heirs are necessary appendages to successful nobles. Land without heirs is a misfortune; but heirs without lands or wealth, among aristocrats, had better been unborn.
Roderick Barclugh was not in the habit of jumping at conclusions. Thus in the selection of his bride he had weighed every influence upon the future of his posterity and his estate. He had calculated that his helpmate must be capable of maintaining, by means of her accomplishments, grace of person, and intellect, his exalted social eminence. She must be respected by the Colonial social leaders in order that the administration of the vice-regal office should be deservedly popular. Though to make doubly sure of his results, Barclugh had determined to wed before his mission to America was divulged and before his emoluments and honors were known. If he were to be accepted in his proposals for marriage he would be desired for himself, and not as Viceroy of the most powerful monarch on earth. Once settled in his marital affairs he could open up to his bride the honors of his position, and the power which would rest in her hands. Dreams of William the Conqueror parcelling out estates and titles to his favorites welled up in the mind of Barclugh.
“What woman would not enjoy such a position?” thought he. “Not a vestige of the former principles of equality and democracy would be tolerated; every semblance of the principles of the Declaration of Independence would be crushed.”
But who was to be the fortunate or unfortunate object of all these plans and conceptions of power and grandeur,—the one on whom would devolve all the prestige of founding a new order of barons,—whose will might be the arbiter and maker of titles for American families in the new regime of nobility and aristocracy?
In 1699 the ebb and flow of the Delaware’s tide were slipping placidly by the City of Brotherly Love, when the founder of Dorminghurst first saw the sphere of his future labors. He was but five and twenty years of age, and the good ship Canterbury brought him hither as secretary of the Proprietor and Governor of Pennsylvania.
He was tall and athletic; a fine scholar, versed in Latin, Greek, French and Spanish. He was a member of the Society of Friends. Imbued with all the ambition of a young, vigorous and refined manhood, James Greydon prospered under the patronage of his benefactor, William Penn. He attended to all the official correspondence of the Colony of Pennsylvania, and to all the private accounts and business of the Proprietor of the Colony. He was a faithful steward to a good and liberal man. He attended all the meetings which William Penn held with the Indian tribes for the purpose of buying lands west of the Susquehanna. The details of these vast transactions rested in the able hands of James Greydon.
All that tract of land lying on both sides of the Susquehanna and the lakes adjacent, in or near the Province of Pennsylvania, was confined at this time by several treaties entered into with the Conostogas, the Shawnees, the Iroquois, the Susquehannas and the Onondagas,—all of whom loved Penn and his friends; so that the language of the treaty had these remarkable words of brotherly relationship:
“They shall for ever hereafter be as one head and one heart, and live in true friendship and amity as one people.”
When Penn was obliged to return to England in 1701, the management of his personal and real estate in the Colony was left to James Greydon. Greydon, therefore, had to receive the Indian deputations, as well as to superintend all the fur traffic with the tribes for the benefit of the proprietor’s estate. He could hardly escape becoming a large landlord by the opportunities thrust into his way in the routine of his duties.
However, the mere acquirement of riches was not gratifying to James Greydon. He not only wished to establish his family comfortably in the enjoyments of a large estate, but he cherished even more highly those graces of mind and body, which accompany the love of books and learning.
Consequently, a few years after his establishment in the Colony and his marriage to a daughter of a wealthy merchant, he consolidated his earnings into several large tracts of land between Philadelphia and the settlement of Friends called Germantown. He named the estate “Dorminghurst.”
The mansion was finished in 1728. At the start, the family occupied the beautiful spot for a summer resort. Many times its master rode from Philadelphia on his finely-bred horse to superintend the clearing of fields, the planting of fruit trees and the setting out of rare shrubs for landscape effects. His pride was aroused in laying out and adorning with hemlocks an avenue which was to be the grand approach to his mansion. While out in the wilderness west of the Susquehanna surveying his possessions, the beauty of the native hemlocks amazed him so forcibly that he gathered, with his own hands, one hundred young trees, and upon his return to Dorminghurst in the autumn had them re-planted for the glory of his own handiwork. Hawthorns, walnuts, hazels and fruit trees sent out by William Penn from England found appropriate spots each year for the embellishment of James Greydon’s home.
Nature had provided Dorminghurst with many attractive features. The primeval forest of oaks, elms and maples needed only the exercise of taste and the use of artistic judgment to convert the undulating natural landscapes into lasting impressions of the beautiful. To cull out the obtruding exuberance of the primitive woodland was a triumph of art. To create a vista of the rivulet, Wingohocking, crooking up a little valley, and to present expanding miles of swelling meadows over which grazed sleek cattle, sometimes resting under a lone magnolia or a group of beeches, were passions in the heart of a devotee of Virgil’s Georgics. The sloping of the ground in all directions from the site of the mansion-house allowed the broad avenue between the hemlocks to curve around each side of the buildings. One way a serpentine road descended through a dense wild-wood grove, and then meandered through the gully, giving perspectives or vistas through the shadowy treetops; the other way skirted enclosures for fruits and esculents on one side, and on the other passed broad lawns rising and falling in harmony ’midst the clumps of spruces, pines and firs.
The development of a family seat in the early Colonial times aroused all the latent energies and pride of its founder. All the true domestic instincts found gratification in first choosing a picturesque location and then unfolding plans for landscape gardening. Problems arose. The manufacture of the brick, and the hewing of the timbers, from off the proprietor’s own soil, the construction of a mill on the stream to grind his own grain, and the building of his smoke-house, brew-house, a place for his loom, his dairy, and his ashery, rounded out the domestic economy of a Colonial gentleman.
The realizations of every domestic felicity were found in these establishments. The capital sprung from the soil, and the labor bestowed brought forth bountiful fruits of the earth, which are sweet to all true men. These treasuries of a home and the securities for a future were sounder and more human than an up-to-date gentleman’s commercial assets which are artificial and sometimes of fictitious origin. No market quotations ruined the Colonial home.
After the needs of the home were supplied from the soil, from the spinning-wheel and loom and the dairy and the poultry-yard, the surplus could be traded for the small needs of money. The Colonist was supported by nature’s products direct from the soil; the man of the present is the offspring of artificial institutions of money and of corporations—the slave of vested rights, whose origins have mostly been the unearned increment.
But, aside from the domestic felicity of the Colonial families, the social phases of their lives were no less distinguished than their hospitable homes. After the mansion was built and the servants or slaves well ordered; after the smoke-house was full of meat; after the mill was full of grain; the home-made ale or cider in the cellar; the spinners and weavers busy at the warp and woof; the travelling shoemaker busy at the year’s foot-wear (made from the home-tanned leather), what could deter the natural social proclivities of these people? The cares of an artificial man were unknown. The dames had quilting and spinning-bees, while the men had hunting contests, which were decided by the best filled bags. Entertainment and hospitality shown to house-parties would last for days. The housewives vied with each other to see their husbands and families clothed in the finest textures of their own manufacture. Each household tried to produce the finest ale of its own brewing, and to establish reputations for its cakes, mince pies and doughnuts. The gossip of the neighborhood was exchanged by the housewives; the men traded horses and sheep and swine; they all danced, dined, played games and made merry; so, then, what more could they ask for pleasure?
Dorminghurst grew out of the forest under the influence of a master mind. The mansion was one of those plain, square, two-storied brick structures,—dormer windows for the attic rooms, and a detached kitchen in the rear (connected with the large dining-hall by a covered passageway). The office was built in line of the eastern elevation of the dwelling, and connected with the house by a covered way. The store-house, smoke-house, brew-house and bakery, besides the servants’ quarters and the stables, were all built of brick and formed a quadrangle enclosure and a court in the center. The doors of all buildings were massive oak and secured by the heaviest fastenings of iron. All windows on the ground floor had heavy shutters, and an underground, secret passageway led from the house to a door under the stables. The structures were enclosed thus to guard against Indian attacks.
A handsome porch and steps led up to the massive front door, which entered into the great hall that extended through the middle of the building. A double staircase, starting in the middle of the great central hall, met on a common landing, which led to the sleeping chambers. Large double parlors on each side of the hallway were connected by folding doors. The large, well-lighted front room on the east side was used as the library, and the large hallway to the rear of the staircase was used as the dining and living-room. All the apartments had vast chimney-places, commodious enough in the openings to receive huge logs of wood for good cheer in winter. Grotesque blue and white tiles, imported from Holland, embellished the massive brick-work of the chimney, and above the mantels were arched niches adorned with rare old china and heavy silver-ware, which on state occasions saw service at table.
The furniture of a Colonial house in 1730 partook, like the house itself, of simplicity, and in design was more useful than ornamental. Mahogany was little known in Pennsylvania, yet used to some extent in the West Indies; oak and black walnut served for the cabinet woods. Chairs in profusion were found only in the houses of the most substantial. Choicely carved chests-of-drawers, cupboards, high-backed chairs and tables found their way from Europe only by the grace of ship-masters, so that imported Colonial furniture was rare and expensive. However, each town of importance had its list of cabinet-makers and joiners who fashioned their handiwork after the design of articles imported and thus supplied the needs of the new country.
At Dorminghurst everything which was possible to be constructed from material found on the estate was made and fashioned right there. The timbers for the mansion and outbuildings were hewn in the forest, and the lumber for finishing the interior was sawed by hand on the spot. Any pieces of oak or walnut that were choice were saved and seasoned for the cabinet-work and for the furniture. Half a dozen skilled artisans were hired by the year and the workmanship put upon the doors, the wainscotting and the staircase was marvellous.
The front part of the great hallway had a lofty ceiling, and was lighted by windows in the second story.
The great double staircase flared out at the foot and ascended by graceful curves, thus forming an elliptical center space between the two banisters. The effect upon entering the well-lighted and lofty hallway was to command respect for the mansion. After passing between two massive and richly-carved newel posts, the elliptical opening between the two staircases had hall seats in comfortable nooks and the rear hall had a huge fireplace and mantel at the very end. Two massive oak settles, high in back, faced each other on each side of the chimney-place, and one could stretch out and lie down on either one of them and be comfortable. A lengthy oaken table with bandy legs stood in the center of the hall. Two long forms or benches without backs were on each side, and two massive, high-backed chairs were at each end of the table. A damask cover was on the table, and the floor was bare and scrupulously white. In entertaining company the great hall was in popular favor.
At this table James Greydon used to entertain his intimates, and he loved to sit and discourse upon topics of the day. He was a Latin scholar and scientific writer of no mean ability. In the ripeness of his attainments he produced a translation of Cicero’s “De Senectute,” which was the first production in America of classical scholarship. At Dorminghurst he collected, for a Colonist, a wonderful library of classical authors.
The well-lighted front room on the first floor was lined with shelves, on which rested shining lights of literature, to guide the effort and ambition of struggling genius in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. An untimely accident had crippled James Greydon, so that for thirty years of his latter life his time was spent almost entirely among his books and in his farming pursuits. He wrote valuable treatises on agriculture, for the then primitive Colonists, and collected precious editions of Cicero, Virgil, Seneca, Pliny and Horace, to say nothing of the lesser lights of Latin literature.
He also collected valuable editions of Greek writers on philosophy, history, verse and the drama. These were the most distinguished collections of classical works to be used at this early date for the benefit of American learning. James Greydon was one of the fathers of scholarship in the New World. He was in correspondence with many scholars and men of letters in Europe. He was the great friend and co-laborer of Franklin, who acquired his knowledge of Latin and Greek from Greydon’s hands.
The quadrant, of such benefit to mariners and explorers, was invented by an artisan under the encouragement of Greydon, at Dorminghurst.
The numerous pamphlets and treatises produced by Greydon on the science of agriculture and on politics were the products of Franklin’s press. Even the noted work of the translation of “De Senectute” which was printed by Franklin (to whom credit at the time was sometimes given for the authorship of the work) was performed by James Greydon.
But the crowning distinction for which Dorminghurst shall be known, was the reverence in which its master was held by the red men of the forest. Keen in the detection and appreciation of true manhood, the native instincts of the Indian shunned the commercialism of the grasping English office-holder; but the pure and simple line of conduct of the scholar and philosopher commanded the respect and esteem of those children of nature—the Indians. Deputations of the fierce Iroquois and the Shawnees and the Susquehannas travelled far and long to listen to the counsel and wisdom of the distinguished sage and philosopher of Dorminghurst. The Indians learned to trust his word and advice so well that his estate became, at length, the Mecca for an annual gathering of his forest friends, and the permanent abode of a few of the descendants of Altamaha.
Many times the long avenue of hemlocks was honored by the gathering of the tribes of red men at Dorminghurst.
Before entering the city for their business with the Governor and Council at Philadelphia, the Indians invariably camped on the estate of the big white chief, James Greydon, as a mark of respect to their friend. Usually the exchange of courtesies could best be accomplished by preparing a feast for the assembled tribesmen.
On the day set apart for the feast, the tribesmen approached the mansion through the avenue of hemlocks. They were clothed in their best buckskin leggings, skin robes and moccasins, and bedecked with plumage and trinkets. No arms or tomahawks were carried, because the Indians respected the Quakers’ dislike of war. They seated themselves in respectful silence on each side of the avenue under the spreading trees, while the servants were busied covering the white tables with dozens of roasted turkeys, ducks, chickens, saddles of venison,—roasted before an open fire,—roasts of beef, pyramids of doughnuts and apples, great pies and cakes, and then light bread cut into slices. All this provision met the eyes of the hungry savage, as he sat smoking his kin-ni-kin-nick.
An occasional grunt of satisfaction issued out of the shade of the hemlocks, whenever a chief, between puffs at his pipe, assented to the monosyllables of the others. The groups were picturesque, seated and grouped around the trees of the spacious lawn. Dignity, becoming a noble race, was written in the lofty mien and countenance of every face. If ever Indians were happy, they were, in partaking of the generous hospitality of this noble Quaker, who was the successor of their great father, William Penn.
The importance of a tribal feast to the Colonists, in 1732, had much weight with the principal men of the State. The distinguished men of the province travelled long distances to be present at these gatherings given by the master of Dorminghurst.
The feast began when the Secretary led out of his mansion an assemblage of gay ladies and gentlemen. James Greydon led them down the wide avenue of hemlocks, bowing and smiling to the natives. They all proceeded to a lofty and spreading oak, accompanied by the great Chief, Altamaha. When the ladies were seated and the gentlemen grouped about, the Chief of the Onondagas, Altamaha, stepped forward and gave a short command. At once the whole body of Indians came forward and squatted on the ground in the form of a half-moon, facing the white people. The chiefs formed a group distinct from the other tribesmen within the circle facing James Greydon.
When the Indians had taken their places James Greydon advanced with solemnity to address his guests:
“My children: The spirit of our great father, William Penn, calls us together again. I welcome you as his children. We are all his children. We have been driven from our homes by the persecutions of the English. We seek our homes among the children of the Great Spirit of the forest, the red men; we are brothers.
“We love our brothers; if they come to our wigwams, hungry, we give them food; we do not make war upon them in their hunting-grounds; we love peace.
“The Great Spirit who rules the heavens and the earth knows that the children of William Penn have a hearty desire to live in peace and friendship with you. Your friend and great father, William Penn, retained a warm affection for all the Indians and commanded all those whom he sent to govern the Quakers to treat the Indians as his children; he continued in this love for them until his death.
“My brethren: Your hearts have been clean and you have preserved the pledge of friendship long ago made for your great father’s children, and the chain has no breaks or rust; you have never forgotten the great love which our father, William Penn, had for you.
“My friends: May your young men learn from you what your great father said to you before he went to his happy hunting-grounds. May our chain of friendship never be broken and may it endure between our children and our children’s children, and may it last while the creeks and rivers run and while the sun, moon and stars do shine.
“I make you welcome to my home.”
Altamaha stood up in his place, and with stolid mien, looking toward his people and the whites, began to reply, at first slowly, while his voice grew in volume as he proceeded:
“Father: Listen to your children; you have them now before you.
“We all belong to our great father, William Penn; we all are children of the Great Spirit; we walk in the same path; slake our thirst at the same spring; and now our great father wishes us to smoke the pipe around the same fire.
“Brothers: We must love each other; we must smoke the same pipe; we must help each other; and more than all we must love the Great Spirit; he is for us; he will destroy our enemies, the King’s dogs; he will make all his red children and the children of our great father happy together.
“Brothers: We are friends; we must assist each other to bear our burdens. The blood of many of our fathers and brothers has run like water on the ground to satisfy the avarice of the King. We, the red men, are threatened with great evil; nothing will pacify the King but the destruction of all the Indians.
“When the English first set foot on our grounds they were hungry; they had no place on which to spread their blankets or kindle their fires. They were feeble; they could do nothing for themselves. Our fathers commiserated their distress and shared freely with them whatever the Great Spirit had given his red children. They gave them food when hungry; medicine when sick; spread skins for them to sleep on, and gave them ground that they might hunt and raise corn,—Brothers: Our enemies are like poisonous serpents; when chilled they are feeble and harmless; but invigorate them with warmth and they sting their benefactors to death.
“Brothers: Our enemies came among us feeble and now that we have made them strong, they wish to kill us or drive us back as they would wolves and panthers.
“Brothers: The King is not a friend to the Indians. At first he only asked for lands sufficient for a wigwam; but now nothing will satisfy him but the whole of our hunting-grounds from the rising to the setting sun.
“The King wants more than our hunting-grounds; he wishes to kill all our old men, women and little ones.
“Our enemies despise and cheat the Indians; they abuse and insult them; they do not think the red men sufficiently good to live.
“Brothers: Who are our enemies that we should fear them? They can not run fast, and are good marks to shoot at; they are only men; our fathers have killed many of them; we are not squaws, and we will stain the earth red with their blood.
“Brothers: We must compare our enemies to a fat dog that carries its tail upon its back; but when affrighted it drops its tail between its legs and runs away.
“O Brothers: The children of our great father Penn are different; they do not love war; they love peace and happiness. When I heard the voice of my great father coming up the valley of the mountains, calling me to this feast, it seemed as a murmuring wind. I got up from my mat where I sat musing, and hastened to obey it. My pathway hither has been clear and bright. There is not a cloud to darken it. Truly it is a pleasant sky above our heads to-day. I have nothing but pleasant words for my father’s children. The raven is not waiting for his prey. I hear no eagle cry. Come, brothers, let us go, the feast is ready.”
The whites, at the conclusion of this burst of native eloquence, were visibly affected. The delivery was impassioned and clear. For the moment all seemed to be transfixed by the impressive character of the speech. James Greydon, however, walked up to the savage chieftain, shook him by the hand, saying: “Good, good, my friend,” and then escorted him by the arm to the tables. The whole assemblage arose and followed in order. When the Indians were all arranged by themselves on each side of the table, the sachem stepped to the head and gave thanks to the Great Spirit in loud and earnest tones by some word of their dialect which sounded to the European ear like “Wah, Wah,” and when he had finished, in no less earnest tones, the whole assembly of natives replied by words which sounded like “Swe, Swe.” At once thereafter the solemnity of the occasion was at an end. The Indians began to talk and laugh. The feast began.
In Indian fashion the natives sat on the ground and waited for the attendants to serve them with portions of everything on the table. The younger people, especially the squaws, would point at the different delicacies and dishes. One feature which attracted the notice and remarks of the entire deputation was a small pig, which had been stuffed and roasted, standing on all fours. At the other end was a large beaver, dressed and cooked in like manner. The center was embellished by placing a coon and a ’possum, dressed and cooked to a turn, which were standing on all fours and facing each other, as though they were ready to fight. These preparations of their own popular dishes immensely pleased the Indians. But when huge pewter mugs of cool ale were passed, then there was fun. The old men and warriors drank it with satisfaction. When the young people and women were urged to take a draught they would shrink from it at first, and when they had tasted it they would make wry faces at which all the others laughed. When the cakes and pies came around, however, the women looked at them curiously and ate them with enjoyment, for they were produced by an art of cookery unknown to the squaws.
The whole feast passed off gayly, yet modestly. An Indian abhors familiarity and vulgarity. The conversation was pleasant but never hilarious. They sat on the ground, Indian fashion, and ate with their hands and fingers, but, withal, there was no greediness. They were polite to each other and waited in silence for their turn to be served. Courtesy to each other is a cardinal practice and they respect the proprieties of intercourse between themselves on all occasions.
However, in a group under a tree by themselves were the chiefs and James Greydon and his white friends. The whites were eating like Indians, seated on the ground and joining in the pleasures of the feast. When everybody had eaten and had drunk all that was needed, Altamaha brought out a new pipe and filled it with tobacco from his pouch. He lighted the tobacco with his steel and flint. After taking several puffs of the smoke, he passed the pipe first to the white chief, James Greydon. Then after a few puffs, Greydon passed it to his white friends. The pipe was then passed to all the chiefs and sachems. After all the principal men of the tribes had smoked the pipe of friendship and peace, Altamaha took it to James Greydon, saying:
“Your brother gives you his pipe of friendship and peace. You must keep it and never again let it be used. Never let the fire be put out which Altamaha has kindled for you.”
Standing up, James Greydon took the pipe, saying in reply:
“My good friend: The most noble of his race is Altamaha. His pledge of friendship to me to-day shall never be broken. The pipe shall be a token to me and my children of the love of Altamaha and his people. His fire shall burn forever in my heart. But come, Altamaha, let us all be merry. Let the young men dance. Our white friends will be pleased.”
At a sign for the dance, the great sachem, Pisquagon, stepped out into an open space on the lawn and began to shake his shell rattles and let out some vocal gyrations. The young men and women applauded by screeching and clapping of hands. The whole concourse gathered around Pisquagon and in unison joined in his chant:
“Yo! ho! ha! ha!—
“Yo! ho! ha! ha!—
“Yo! ho! ha! ha!—
“Yo! ho! ha! ha!” And to the rhythm made by the shell rattles, one warrior with feathered war-cap waving above him, shoulders and limbs bare, lets out a whoop and starts over the green by jerking his two feet together over the ground. Presently another, “dressed in Georgia fashion,”—little else on than a collar and a pair of spurs,—starts off sideways, moving his feet over the ground by jerks, in unison with the shell rattles. Suddenly he faces the other performer and the two proceed in unison, one forward and the other backward, following the same direction around in a circle. As if by magic, yells come from the others, and pairs join the moving circle in manner like the first two.
The circle is completed. The noisy stamping of their feet and the shrieks of enthusiasm are startling. At certain cadences in the chant, each one faces about and continues the moving circle in the same direction as before, dancing and contorting with renewed spirit and energy. The dusky throng performs all manner of grotesque movements. Every conceivable posture of the human frame is kept up while moving to the beats and rhythm of the shells. The men were dancing alone, but a young squaw, desiring to join, presents herself at the side of the one whom she wishes to favor, and quietly dances in the circle. There was no cessation of the spirit of the dance till sheer exhaustion stopped it. Some sort of superstitious frenzy seemed to possess their souls. To the whites the most amusing part of it all was to observe the solemn and serious faces of those who were in the performance of the most grotesque antics. Not a smile softened their somber mien.
A well-contested foot-race for a necklace of beads was run between the Indian girls to conclude the festivities, and when the setting sun had drawn near, James Greydon’s Indian friends had withdrawn so silently and without ceremony, that he remarked to his guests when he looked around to find them:
“The earth must have swallowed them up.”
“Segwuna, Segwuna, here are the berries,” sang out the sweet voice of Mollie Greydon, on a balmy June day, as two girls were seeking wild strawberries on the banks of the Wingohocking. The year was 1776, and the day was one of lasting memory at Dorminghurst.
Dr. Greydon had invited Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson to Dorminghurst to spend a Sunday during the deliberations of the Continental Congress. The change and rest in the country would give these earnest workers the time in which to ponder over their labors and to consult as to measures that Congress ought to adopt.
When distinguished guests were to grace the home of the Greydons frequently Miss Mollie was busy for days providing the table with all the delicacies of the season, and leaving nothing undone for the comfort of her father’s friends.
Two girls were seeking wild strawberries on the banks
of the Wingohocking.
For the purpose of gathering a goodly supply of wild strawberries, she went to the lodge of Kaubequa, the mother of her favorite companion, Segwuna, to enlist the Indian woman and her daughter in her task. The three worked tirelessly on the day before Sunday, as the distinguished statesmen were to be present for supper, and she knew that wild strawberries would be such a treat for her father’s guests.
Ever since the killing of Kaubequa’s brave by the whites, when Segwuna was a small child, this lone Indian family had made their home on Dr. Greydon’s estate, Dorminghurst. The child had been nurtured and educated as his own, since she was the grandchild of Altamaha, the great friend of James Greydon, his father.
The Greydons had cherished these children of the forest as a heritage of the soil. The family of Altamaha had always been privileged Indians at Dorminghurst. After the death of Altamaha, and the killing of his son in the valley of the Monongahela, Kaubequa, her infant daughter and boy made the long journey to Dr. Greydon’s estate alone.
The white settlers had killed her brave, and had driven her tribe from the beautiful valley in the mountains, and the mother had wearied of war. She knew that if she could once get to the old friends of Altamaha she could rest in safety and rear her two children in peace. She oft murmured to herself in the plaintive language of her race as she gazed upon her two fatherless children:
“I care not again to hear the eagle scream on high. The war manitou has left me alone, alone and destitute. Every day, thou, star of my destiny, I gaze at thee. Whither shall I fly?
“He was still standing on a fallen tree that had fallen into the water,—my sweetheart!
“Alas, when I think of him! when I think of him! It is when I think of him!—Oh, disquagummee!”
Her mind rebelled and indignation took the place of sadness as she thought of the happy wigwam that her warrior supplied so well with game and fish; and how she used to enjoy the security of their forest home. While her brave was out after the chase, she was grinding the corn and tanning the skins. When he journeyed far in his favorite hunting-grounds she was cultivating the maize and potatoes for her loved ones, so that there would be plenty for her lord upon his return.
Many times did she swing her baby girl to sleep while her boy played about the lodge and gazed at her with love in his young eyes as she sang:
But she could not, in the care of her children, dispel the sadness of her mind, knowing that she must give up the joys of her forest life. Everything had been so full of hope when he was beside her, but now she could lie on her couch of boughs and mats and ponder upon the sad fate to which she had been cast by the relentless white man. Her mind oft reflected what has been well written:
The inevitable had come to Kaubequa, and she sought her white friends, whose religion abhorred war. She set up her lodge on the estate of Dr. Greydon,—not even asking leave to do so.
The first evidence that the master of Dorminghurst had of the newly arrived family, was the presentation of a mokuk of maple sugar to the household by a comely young squaw. She carried an infant daughter on her back, bound up in an Indian’s cradle.
She desired to obtain some meat, and her way was to exchange with the white people.
Her son was a dextrous lad of nine years, who had learned to fish and trap small animals for food and fur.
The infant daughter of Kaubequa grew like a young fawn around her mother’s lodge. When the child had reached the age verging upon womanhood, she possessed a tall, slender form, a beautiful olive complexion and large expressive eyes, much like the wild doe,—in that the haughty restlessness of the wilderness child could be discerned in her glance.
Her name was Segwuna, the daughter of Springtime, and when about thirteen summers, her mother advised her that a sign made by the Great Spirit to her would mean that she was to be a great woman, if she only would do whatever her mother required of her.
Consequently, early one morning in mid-winter, an unusual sign appeared to Segwuna in her dreams. She arose from her couch and ran as far from her lodge as her strength allowed and remained there until her mother found her.
Her mother knew what had happened, and directed her to come nearer the family abode, and instructed her to help prepare a lodge out of the boughs of the hemlock.
She was told not to taste anything for two days, not even snow. As a diversion, she was to twist and prepare the bark of the linden into twine. She could gather wood, build herself a fire, lie down and keep warm.
Segwuna did as directed and at the end of the two days her mother came to see her, but did not bring a morsel to eat. Her thirst was greater than her hunger, yet the pangs of hunger were very violent.
Kaubequa sat down with her child, after she had ascertained that nothing had passed Segwuna’s lips for two days, and said:
“My child, you are my only daughter. Now, my daughter, listen to me and try to obey. Blacken your face and fast faithfully, so that the Master of Life may have pity on you and me, and on us all. Do not in the least deviate from my counsels, and in two days more I will come to you.”
Segwuna continued to fast for two days more, when her mother came to the lodge and melted some snow and told her to drink the water. Her desires were for more, but her mother would not allow anything more to drink or anything to eat. But she instructed Segwuna to ask the Great Spirit to show her a vision that would not only do them good, but also benefit mankind.
The night of the fifth day a voice called to Segwuna in her slumber, and said:
“Poor child, I pity your condition. Come, you are called into my service on earth. I give you my power and the life everlasting. I give you long life on earth and skill in bringing others to my kingdom of life everlasting in the happy hunting-grounds.”
In her vision she saw a shining path like a silver cord and it led upward to an opening in the sky, where stood the Great Spirit, in a brilliant halo, encircled with glistening stars.
“Look at me,” saith the spirit, “my name is the Bright Blue Sky. I am the veil that covers the earth. Do not fear. You are a pure and dutiful maiden. You have come to the limit which mortals cannot pass. Now return. There is a conveyance for you. Do not fear to ride on its back, and when you get to your lodge, you must take that which sustains the human body.”
Segwuna saw a snow-white bird soaring like the frigate bird in the sky, and when she got on its back, she was wafted through the air,—her hair streaming behind,—and as soon as she arrived at her lodge her vision ceased.
Upon awakening, Segwuna arose and returned as fast as she could to her mother’s lodge, where she was fed cautiously by her mother. One could see that she had undergone a serious transformation. The same tall willowy form and elastic step were there, but the eyes had changed their innocent fawn-like gaze to a tense and determined far-away look that could be interpreted as seriousness and reflection combined.
She went about her duties around the wigwam as though some great task or burden were weighing her down. And well might those about her observe her changed manners, for she now deserted the company of her former playmates and took long and lonely walks through the deep woods,—resolving silently to serve the Great Spirit the rest of her life by rendering happy those whom she loved.
The Great Spirit of her forefathers had now wrought in her soul deep convictions of the duty that she owed to her mother, her brother, and especially to her kind young friend who lived in the great mansion-house. The stories that she had heard recited around the lodge’s fire of the presents made by the great white chief, James Greydon, to her people, surged through her mind. How kind and gentle he had always been to the Indians! her kinsfolk! Those were happy days before the white men had learned the beauties of their old home on the Monongahela! All the native traits of her race were aroused.
Many times she reasoned thus:
“I can never forgive an injury, nor can I ever forget hospitality and kindness. My heart bleeds to show the King, our father across the sea, what great wrong has been done my loved ones, when he sent the great white birds across the sea that caused the eagle to scream on high.
“My Manitou will bless his Segwuna and teach his daughter to show the King that when my sky was clear he ought not to send his warlike birds on the long journey across the water. The King’s warriors shall not prosper on this side of the great water. Segwuna, the handmaid of the Great Spirit, shall take her friends over the river, across which the King’s warriors can not pass. While her friends shall be happy and have plenty, from this time forth the King shall remain on the other side of the river and wither and die, because he was so avaricious.”
The small band of Indians at Dorminghurst learned to love and revere Segwuna. As she grew older she stored up the herbs of the forest and showed great skill in nursing and curing the young and old of lesser ailments.
The test of the young prophetess came in the year 1774. The severe storms and heavy snows of the winter made game very scarce and the Indians were near starvation. They had, therefore, occasion to try the arts of Segwuna to determine the range of the game.
So the chief of the band came into the lodge of Segwuna’s mother and requested that her daughter be allowed to try her skill to relieve them. The mother laid the request before Segwuna and gained her consent.
The prophetess directed the chief to build the prophet’s lodge of ten posts or saplings, each of different kinds of wood that she named. When finished and tightly wound with skins, Segwuna went inside and took a small drum and rattles with her. The whole band assembled around.
The chief put the question to the prophetess:
“Where shall game be found?”
As if from some supernatural power the drum sounded within the lodge, and a voice was heard chanting, while the whole structure began to shake violently, and the people without began to shriek and moan as though to recognize the presence of the Great Spirit that was consulted.
A silence fell suddenly upon the lodge, and the people now looked for an answer to their question.
A voice then arose as from the top of the lodge, which said in slow and sepulchral tones:
“How short-sighted, you. If you will go in the direction of the south, game in abundance you will find.”
Next day the camp was taken up, and they all moved to the southward, led by the hunters. Proceeding not far beyond their former hunting-grounds a doe and two fawns were killed, and the little band thereafter found an abundance of food for the rest of the winter.
The reputation of Segwuna was thus established among her own people, but still greater undertakings were awaiting this handmaiden of the Great Spirit, not alone for the good that she did for her own people, but for the benefit of a nation.
The distinguished members of the Continental Congress reached Dorminghurst during the afternoon when Mollie Greydon and Segwuna had been gathering the wild strawberries for supper. They were weary with their deliberations during the hot June days, and the freshness of the country air was a tonic to soul and body.
Dr. Franklin had known Dr. Greydon since the latter’s childhood, and he walked around the grounds examining the garden with characteristic good comradeship, as he said:
“William,” addressing Dr. Greydon, “are these cherries from the trees brought over by William Penn and planted by your father?”
“How fine,” exclaimed Mr. Jefferson, “are these roses! I shall have to get some cuttings for my garden at Monticello,” as they sauntered along the path bordered by box, on the way to the sun-dial.
“Yes,” replied Dr. Greydon to Benjamin Franklin, “father planted the originals of most of these trees and we have grafted the scions to perpetuate the memory of our dear friend, William Penn. But do you see those columbines on the wall? Those were brought from Monongahela by Altamaha. That honeysuckle was brought from England by our friend, George Fox,” as he pointed to a beautiful vine embowering the gate of the wall surrounding the house court.
The three made their way through rows of hollyhocks, feverfew, rhododendrons, tulips, peonies, narcissi, rows of homely bee-hives, the spot for the physic and pot-herbs, where pennyroyal, tansy, spearmint, anise, dill, horse-leek, bitter-sweet, hyssop and boneset were growing, when they reached the apple orchard beyond the garden.
A large orchard seat under one of those homely old apple trees, savoring of domesticity, brought them to a quiet nook where the three sat down for a discussion of affairs.
“Do you believe that the delegates from Pennsylvania will vote for a Declaration, Doctor Franklin?” asked Mr. Jefferson of his associate.
“I, for one, shall vote for the Declaration,” replied Benjamin Franklin, emphatically, “but the other delegates from Pennsylvania, Robert Morris and James Wilson, I am convinced will never do so. They love riches too well to disturb present institutions. They are too close to, and too much interested in the commercial element of Philadelphia to be so radical. If they could see money in the venture they would not hesitate.”
“But do you not think that they can see the great benefits to mankind in free institutions and in the doctrine that all men are created free and equal?” continued Mr. Jefferson.
“Never, sir, so long as they think that there is any reason to stand on the argument of non-interference with settled usage and present commercial relations. They believe that a Declaration would bring war and an upheaval in trade. You know they represent great commercial houses in London, and they think that they would be ruined to cut off their condition of agent and hireling. They are thoroughly whipped into line by a policy of commercial cowardice and dependence. They cannot see that to be independent of England’s merchants would be for their own benefit,” argued Franklin to his listeners’ delight.
“I believe that they will see the error of their way,” continued Dr. Greydon.
“Yes, when they find that they are overwhelmingly outvoted by the rest of us,” remarked Jefferson. “But those commercial people think that the world revolves around them and that we farmers are mere satellites, reflecting their wisdom,” continued Jefferson lightly.
“But what about the printers?” inquired Franklin with a smile.
“Oh, they have no right to exist, when they print the truth about these lords of creation,” insisted Jefferson.
“When they speak of themselves as men of substance, I find that they are mighty small potatoes, when they require a man of physic to keep body and soul together,” happily joined in Dr. Greydon.
“Really, these commercial people are to be pitied,” said Franklin. “Their glory is of short duration. To-day they are princes of commerce, and to-morrow they are paupers. So we must be charitable with them and let them show how little they know, as they usually do in a bombastic way. Like a ‘tinkling cymbal’ and ‘a sounding brass’ their glory passeth as the night.”
By this time a servant announced supper, and the three retraced their steps in jolly good humor to the mansion, for their appetites were unusually keen.
At supper Dr. Franklin exclaimed when he tasted the wild fruit that Mollie had provided:
“William, where did you get such delicious wild fruit?”
“Why, sir, our daughter, Mollie, and Segwuna, the Indian maiden, gathered the best on the estate,” as he indicated Miss Mollie with a gesture of his hand, whereupon Mollie blushed inordinately as the two distinguished guests smiled graciously upon her.
“Did I understand you to say ‘Segwuna’?” asked the philosopher. “Segwuna, Segwuna,” he continued. “Why, Mr. Jefferson, we have heard that name before. It is so peculiar.”
“Certainly, certainly, Doctor,” was Mr. Jefferson’s response. “She is the mysterious Indian maiden that has been such a constant attendant upon our meetings of Congress. Why, she would be at our door as we passed in, and still there as we passed out. She has been observed by several gentlemen. At all times she looks eagerly into our faces as though anxious for some sign or news that would please her. Her face lights up with an intelligence that haunts me ever since I first met her gaze. She seemed so pure and noble that I have been more than once moved at the presence of this lone Indian girl,—the sole representative of her race among the curious throng that have watched our deliberations. If she lives near by,” continued the statesman with much earnestness in his tone, “I would like to question her, and learn her purpose at the doors of Congress.”
Dr. Greydon was surprised at this information and he replied with lively interest:
“You certainly may see our forest child, Mr. Jefferson, and in fact, this very evening; for Segwuna has grown up on our estate, and if any honor attaches to the meeting, Dorminghurst shall claim it,” concluded the host as he turned to Dr. Franklin with a merry twinkle in his eye.
“May I take you to the lodge of Segwuna, Mr. Jefferson?” enthusiastically questioned Miss Mollie, as her eyes danced with joy at the mention of her favorite companion by these distinguished gentlemen. “Segwuna,” she added, “has told me that great events were going to happen within the present moon and that great leaders of men were to come forth and proclaim the sweetest message from the Great Spirit that human kind had ever heard.
“She has been to the meetings of Congress,” innocently burst out Segwuna’s companion, “to watch for what the Manitou has told her would come to pass, because she has told me all about it.”
“How do you suppose the Indian maiden can foretell such great matters, Miss Mollie?” asked the venerable Dr. Franklin, who was really affected by the enthusiasm of his young friend.
“Why, Mr. Franklin, there is much that is good and wise in Segwuna. She seeks out the poor and sick in the city and carries them medicine and game. She says that the rich are too proud and grasping to remember the poor.
“She says such wise things and tells me that her Manitou has sent her as a guiding star to me, and that she will protect me from much danger,” continued Miss Mollie, with a tinge of real sentiment in her voice.
As the question had been answered most interestingly by Miss Mollie, Mr. Jefferson seemed to be seriously taken up with the philosophy of Segwuna, and turned to Dr. Greydon suggesting that they might go to the lodge of Segwuna and interview her upon the glowing topics of the day as the sage of Monticello remarked:
“For we know not from what source we may gather wisdom that shall illumine our path.”
When the meal had been finished, and the gentlemen had relished their pipes under the hemlocks, the whole party strolled on their way with Mollie as leader. They took the path past the mill on the Wingohocking and through the wild-wood trail in the soft light of the early evening to the lodge of Segwuna.
Nothing could be more peaceful or simple in nature than the lone wigwam in a rift of the woods, approached by a well-beaten path through the underbrush. The curling smoke of a lazy fire was streaming skyward in the still evening air, with an atmosphere broken by no sound except the barking of an Indian’s dog.
There sat the mother on a mat before the wigwam, and peering from the inside was Segwuna, standing shyly out of sight, but able to perceive the approach of the party with Dr. Greydon.
Kaubequa sat quietly at her wigwam entrance and when Dr. Greydon approached and greeted her in her own tongue, she replied and smiled as she asked Segwuna to step out and greet them.
As the daughter obeyed, Mollie ran and took Segwuna by both hands, and led her toward Dr. Franklin and Mr. Jefferson,—both of whom bowed very low when Miss Mollie presented her shy Indian companion.
As Dr. Franklin could discern serious eagerness in Mr. Jefferson’s countenance, he volunteered to unravel the Indian girl’s mind.
“Segwuna, we have observed you at the meetings of Congress, and may we ask why you are so much interested in the proceedings?” asked Dr. Franklin, when he had been presented to Segwuna.
“Certainly, Mr. Franklin,” answered the Indian maid, “Segwuna never misses a day. The Great Spirit is watching every word said in Congress. I am bound to do His bidding. He wishes Americans to be free and make all men equal. The Indians love liberty. The soil which the white man has adopted for his home, in the beginning was given by the Great Spirit to His children, the Indians. Each Indian was to be his own lord and master, and whoever lives on the Indian’s land shall derive the same right. What the Great Spirit hath given shall never be taken away.”
When Mr. Jefferson had found much force in the first answer, he nervously continued with a question:
“Do you believe, Segwuna, that this land of ours shall be free and prosperous forever?”
“Yes, Mr. Jefferson, the Great Spirit in the first place gave the Indians this land. He told them that they would be given the means of subduing all of the earth, if they would only be industrious and cultivate the gift of corn and make good use of His gift.
“If they did not make good use of the gift, his white brother would come and take his birth-right away. So, as the Indians heeded not what the Great Spirit commanded, his white brother has succeeded to all the good that the Indian’s corn was intended to be for the land.”
Dr. Greydon was amazed at the answers already given and thought that something more than common knowledge was her heritage, so he attempted a question:
“Is the Indian’s white brother to resist his enemy, the King across the water?”
“Yes, Dr. Greydon, if the Great Spirit had given this land to all men alike and all men are to be equal in His sight no King can prosper on the soil where Indian corn is grown; for when the King’s soldiers eat the corn of the Great Spirit, they shall turn upon their King and fight for liberty like the Indian and the Indian’s white brother.”
“O Segwuna, will you tell the gentlemen what the Great Spirit says shall come to the land of the Indians when the King shall cease to hold sway over it?” was the question of Mollie, who had heard Segwuna talk about these things before.
“Yes, my sweetheart, I love to look upon my native land, the land of my forefathers, as the most powerful of the nations. But the Great Spirit must be obeyed, or the white brother of the Indian shall lose all like the Indian.
“The Indians have lost their beautiful land because they did not make good use of the Great Spirit’s gift,—the Indian corn. They left the planting of it to the women, while they followed the chase. But the Indian’s white brother must make good use of this gift and become very powerful as the Great Spirit promised. Yet when the white man shall get too proud to eat the Indian’s corn for food, he then also shall lose this beautiful land.
“The King laughs at the Indian’s corn and at the Indian’s skins for raiment and at the Indian’s love for equality; but the King must learn to give freely to his unfortunate brother. All of this the King and his white brother must learn from the Indian. When any one starves in the tribe, the chief must starve also.
“If the King takes all of the corn away from his hunters and gives it to the chiefs, the Great Chief will become angry and take his corn away from his land so that the King and his chiefs shall have to become hunters too.”
At the conclusion of this last answer, Mr. Jefferson stepped up to Segwuna and thanked her for her kindness, and handed her a silver coin.
But at this last act Segwuna smiled and with polite dignity returned the coin and said:
“The Great Spirit hath no token of worth except His bounteous love and kindness.”
In return Mr. Jefferson seemed greatly pleased as he politely shook the hand of Segwuna and replied:
“My dear child, you have a noble spirit and I shall remember what you have told us.”
The other gentlemen shook the hand of Segwuna and Mollie kissed her as they left to return to the mansion.
On the way all turned to Dr. Franklin to learn his opinion of the philosophy of the Indian girl.
After a short period of silent reflection on the part of all, the good-humor of the old printer could not be held in as he solemnly said:
“If the King of Great Britain does not subdue the Americans, he shall have to acknowledge the corn.”
Barclugh started on his long and perilous ride to Washington’s headquarters at Fishkill; thence to New York.
He was oblivious to all that passed him on the road. He travelled on, and on, to the ferry at Trenton, conscious of nothing but his own thoughts. The more that he willed to divorce the image of Mollie Greydon from his mind, the more his soul rebelled. He at last reasoned that another existence than his own had entered his life, and he could not explain the cause. But should he only let his thoughts dwell unrestricted on his business, at least he might be able to dismiss her, as he had many times the existence of the gay infatuations of his life in Paris.
However, her beauty of face, her form and her carriage not only enthralled him, but he dwelt upon the character that he found in the kindly twinkle of her deep hazel eyes; her understanding of the great principles of human liberty; her patriotism; her devotion to the soldiery of her native land. All were grand conceptions to dwell upon.
In her there was no first consideration of self, like the frivolous woman of fashion. She knew that a mission in life was the proper destiny for one to follow; and in the trying needs of her country she knew that clothes and food for the Continentals needed her best and undivided effort.
She knew that every dozen of eggs, every fowl, every blanket, every pair of woolen socks, every yard of homespun, spoke volumes to the patient, ill-fed, and ill-clothed Continental who was serving for the principles of the Declaration,—serving with no pay and expecting none. She was happy in the pursuit of her humble mission; she had no grievance with which to worry others. Her mission was to render some one happy with her deeds; consequently her life was full of elements that daily exemplified the sweetness of her existence to others.
The natural tendency of a commonplace intellect would be to sternly rebuke others who expressed opinions opposed to his own ambitions; but the philosophy of human nature carried Barclugh into deeper considerations. He had his particular objects to accomplish and had his plans matured to effect them; therefore, he kept quiet about his own principles and tried to learn every detail about the opinions of the opposition. Thus he would be prepared to use the weak points of his adversary to his own advantage.
He thought he knew that Colonial gentlemen were much like their Anglo-Saxon ancestry, honest, fearless and loyal to their convictions; but if, after a protracted struggle, they found their cause defeated and their case hopeless, they would submit. Their love of peace and tranquillity would overcome their feelings about independence. They would be satisfied with the forms of liberty without the substance. He reasoned that history repeats itself among his countrymen. When the Normans conquered the Anglo-Saxon, his submission to the regime of William the Conqueror was complete. He reasoned that a decisive stroke of the English arms would reconcile the Colonists to the helplessness of their cause.
These convictions led him more seriously than ever to conclude that the dominant party at the end of the war would have the allegiance of the whole country. Therefore Roderick Barclugh was more resolute than ever to seize West Point by means of gold and afterwards ally himself and his fortunes to the virtues and zeal of Mollie Greydon.
He travelled on the main turnpike that led northward from Philadelphia, along the Delaware, until he reached Bristol, which commands a beautiful view of the river. He stopped at an inn kept by a Mr. Benezet, and announced himself thus:
“My name is Pierre La Fitte. I am a merchant from Philadelphia, and travelling to Boston. Have no news, am tired and hungry. Have you provender for my horse and dinner for me?”
The landlord looked up in astonishment at the brusque preclusion of prying questions as to the business, destination and knowledge of a stranger. Even the servants tiptoed when they came into the presence of their august guest.
However, the dinner and lodging were most excellent, and the breakfast was more than could be expected at a country inn, but when Barclugh paid his bill in the morning the innkeeper had charged double prices for his guest’s exclusiveness. As Barclugh got what he desired,—no questions,—he did not mind the payment, but before he had been many more days on this journey he learned that Colonial hospitality was not always dealt out on a money basis, and he was exceedingly glad to change his mannerisms.
The refreshing sleep at the Bristol inn was excellent to Barclugh, and the next morning he started out with his spirits in high glee. The enthusiasm of his nature was now working out the possibilities of his mission, and he was calculating the possibilities of danger in his journey, all of which acted upon him as a stimulant, while his horse was cantering along the Delaware road, in the fresh morning air, toward Trenton.
A ferry crosses the Delaware three miles below the town, and Barclugh took it to the Jersey side and went to an inn at Trenton that had a sign swinging on a high post, representing a beaver at work with his teeth, gnawing down a large tree, underneath which was written, “Perseverando.”
Barclugh was inclined to stop at the tavern to give his horse a rest and to refresh himself while he would be feeling his ground about his journey northward.
The hour was about ten o’clock in the morning, when the old men of the town began to gather at the tavern for a gossip over the war news, and to indulge in their daily allowance of rum in the tap-room. As Barclugh dismounted and sauntered up the steps which led into the public house, all eyes were turned upon the stranger. He seated himself in an arm-chair at a round table. A large square room having a low ceiling and settles standing at right angles to the fireplace met his glance; the smoke was curling slowly from smouldering logs into the chimney-space; a lazy, fat, round-faced Swede was lolling at the end of the bar, and several casks of wine and liquor placed upon racks to the left of the counter were labelled, “Rum,” “Madeira,” “Canary,” “Cherry Bounce,” “Perry,” and “Cider.”
A brace of old cronies whose only cares now were to meet each other in the tap-room daily and talk over the prowess among men in their youthful days, and despair about the effeminate youth of the present; and wonder what the world was coming to, were seated at a table and gazed at the stranger.
“He, he, he!” chuckled old Samuel Whitesides, as Barclugh seated himself and ordered a hot rum punch, for the morning air was chilly. “I declare, those whippersnappers daown in Philadelphia are makin’ a fool aout of Ben Arnold,—he’s got a mighty high snortin’ kind of a gal that he’s hitched up to,—and I b’leave, brother Hopper, that he would like to be out of the clutches of them money-grabbers. He’s too good a fighter to be gallavantin’ around in silks and satins.”
“How queer! how queer!” squeaked out old Jonathan Hopper, as he leaned over and poked his old companion in the ribs. “Say, Sam, if we were young agin like Ben, we would not prefer to stay ’round with aour wife in the city than to be chasing those redcoats from Dan to Beshabee, partic’larly if we had been married less than a year, eh, Sam’l! Wall, I guess not! He, he, he! Eh, Samuel?” as he poked old Sam in the ribs again with his cane.
“Wa’al, Jonathan, when we were boys, thar was no time for this high-fa-lutin’ keepin’ honey-moon, keepin’ honey-moon. What we had to do was to git married and leave Betsy at home while we went to work to git som’thin’ to keep body and soul together. But naow, even in these war times, our Ginerals are snoopin’ araound in these high jinks fashion, waitin’ on their leedies in taown.”
“Quite keerect, quite keerect, Sam’l, but I calcalate if you and I were to live it over agin and had a chanc’t to git into all these doin’s that the young sprouts now have, in the large taowns, I b’leeve we would be as keen as ennybody for pleesure. For what’s the use of you, you old rascal, skrewin’ yourself up into a pritty pass over the young uns, for natur’ is natur’ and let natur’ take its course, Sam’l. But how queer! how queer!” said old Jonathan as he again poked Samuel in the ribs and took another sip out of the rum glass.
By the time the pint of rum was consumed by these relicts of the reign of Queen Anne, they were generally ready to go up the road arm in arm, each with a cane, just mellow enough to show the young sprouts that nobody need show them how to step off with the dignity of an Indian.
However, on this day matters took a different turn.
Barclugh stepped up to the old gentlemen and inquired modestly:
“Gentlemen, may I ask you the best road to Princeton?”
“To be sure, sir,” replied old Samuel, as he turned toward Barclugh, leaning forward with both hands on his walking-stick as he sat gazing into Barclugh’s face:
“But have we the pleasure of the gentleman’s name and occupation?” quizzed the old man.
Barclugh was not quite ready for the inquisitive familiarity of the reply, but as he commenced with a question there was no alternative in his case but to answer up cheerfully:
“My name is Pierre La Fitte; I am a merchant of Philadelphia on my way to Fishkill Landing.”
“Humph, you got a pretty skittish ride before you, Mr. La Fitte, and I b’leeve the longest road is the shortest for you. You just keep right on to Princeton and then to Morristown Heights and when you git five miles beyond Morristown you ask for my son-in-law, Benjamin Andrews, and he will take good care of you and all you need to tell him is that you met old Samuel Whitesides and it won’t cost you a farthing for your keep.”
“Have we the pleasure of the gentleman’s name and
occupation?” quizzed the old man.
However, as this conversation was proceeding, old Jonathan kept his eye closely on the stranger as he sat with his chin on both hands which were resting on his cane before him.
Barclugh noticed that he was being scrutinized very sharply and he did not relish his position, but he looked out at his horse and turned to go with a parting bow to the two old men, while he thanked his informant twice.
No sooner had the stranger mounted than the old men arose to watch him disappear up the road.
“Sam’l,” said Hopper, “what d’ye think of that ’ere stranger? I b’leeve he has no good around these parts. He had an uneasy and restless look in his eye. He’s got some deep-laid business on his mind and I don’t think that was his name that he told us. Mabbee he’s one of those consarned British spies that we hear so much about these times.”
“Yes, yes, you got to git yourself all worked up naow, Jonathan, and all on account of that gentleman addressing me to the hexclusion of yourself. If you thought that he was a spy why didn’t you step up to him and demand his passports? Now that he is gone you can concoct all kinds of dreams about him; that’s cowardly, Jonathan, that’s cowardly.”
“Sam’l,” came the hot reply, “you and I have been boys and men together, but when you impeach the bravery of an old soldier,—one who has been at Crown Point and Ticonderogy, too! Why, sir, that is beyond endurance, and before I shall be seen coming down this road again with you, may bunions like onions grow out of my toes. I shall leave you, sir, I shall leave you,” sputtered old Jonathan as he hobbled to his feet, livid and glaring at Samuel with rage.
As he shuffled across the room with the aid of his cane, he made for the door and straightway, as fast as his bunions would allow him, striding up the road, he cut the air with his hands and cane, muttering: “I’ll be damned first, I’ll be damned first.”
However, Jonathan had not gone very far before he met a young Indian girl going in the opposite direction. She stopped and very quietly asked:
“Sir, could you tell me if you have seen a gentleman on a black horse go along the road this morning travelling for Fishkill to General Washington’s headquarters? He was tall and dark and wore a velvet waistcoat of dark blue.”
“Why, my girl, yes, that’s right. He was going to Fishkill. Certainly, you just come with me, I’ll show you a man that knows all about him. He was just talking with him. I b’leeve that ’ere man you ask for is a rascal, and Samuel can’t turn my head abaout it neethur.”
“Yes, sir, I believe he has no good purposes in taking this journey. I have seen him and General Arnold meet after midnight alone.”
“Look at that! look at that!” continued old Jonathan. “Mabbee Sam’l won’t listen to that. You come along with me, my girl. I want you to show that old wiseacre a thing or two. Come along with me, my girl.”
When they arrived at the door of the tap-room, the Indian girl hesitated and paused at the doorway while Jonathan bolted up to Samuel as though he were going to eat him up.
But Jonathan said in his most persuasive tones:
“Samuel, there’s a young lady here, that wants to ask you about that gentleman on his way to Fishkill.”
“Certainly, certainly, Jonathan. I’ll do anything to please you,” returned Samuel as he rose and went to the Indian girl, who stood at the doorway of the tavern, as she asked:
“Has this gentleman told you where he was going?”
“Yes,” spoke up Samuel as he straightened to his full height to answer. “He sid he was goin’ to Feeshkill.”
“I b’leeve he was lyin’,” interjected Jonathan, with a snap in his voice. “I think he’s goin’ somewhere else and he wanted to put us off his tracks. Now, what do you think, young lady?”
“It’s hard to tell, sir, but I saw him visit General Arnold.
“What name did he give you, sir?”
“He said: ‘My name is Pierre La Fitte, and I am a merchant of Philadelphia on my way to Feeshkill,’” replied Samuel.
“Why, that’s not his real name,” returned Segwuna. “His name is Roderick Barclugh.”
“Look at that, look at that,” said Jonathan, glaring at Samuel. “I knew that you would be up to great bizness when you asked that rascal to stop at Ben Andrews’. He may be a reg’lar cut-throat.”
“Now, look a’ here, Jonathan, I think that you’re a-pokin’ your nose too far into my way of doin’ things, d’ye hear?” ejaculated Samuel, as he pounded on the floor with his walking-stick, by way of emphasis.
Jonathan Hopper glared at Samuel as he strode off indignantly toward the other part of the room, while Segwuna talked to Samuel Whitesides about Barclugh.
Segwuna immediately took her departure on the road to Princeton as soon as she learned that Barclugh had left for that direction.
The two old cronies agreed that the stranger was more mysterious after they had learned that this Indian girl was following his footsteps.
For weeks afterward Uncle Sam and his friend Jonathan had an incident of consequence to discuss in the queer occurrences of that morning at the inn.
As Barclugh mounted his steed and cantered through Trenton, he saw happy children and old men, chickens and ducks at every household. Occasionally the housewife came to the side door and gazed with arms akimbo at the strange horse and rider.
There was much to occupy Barclugh’s thoughts as he rode over this road. A little over a year previous here the hirelings of George III laid down their arms to the intrepid Washington, and his mission was to overcome by means of money what Britain’s generals had lost at arms. The irony of the situation aroused his red blood. He quickened the pace of his horse as the blood surged through his body at the thoughts of the enormity of his undertaking.
Quickly he left the town and turned his direction toward Princeton. He knew that he was travelling on martial ground. He soon came to and had to cross the identical bridge that Washington had so gallantly defended against Cornwallis, whom he had sent to camp; but ere the morning, the thunder of American artillery in the rear at Princeton awoke the British to the fact that they were out-generalled.
Also the sleepy town of Princeton presented its scenes of disaster to Barclugh, who was riding along on his solitary journey of intrigue. Here he had to pass in view of Nassau Hall, where Washington’s force surrounded two hundred British and compelled them to surrender. On his way thither he had to pass over the road that Washington’s rear-guard had so successfully blocked to the British advance by chopping down timber across the roadway and by burning the bridges behind him.
The British representative gnashed his teeth to actually see how helpless was the situation of Washington’s band of barefooted patriots one day at Trenton, and the next how triumphant under the daring leader as he marched his little force to safety at Morristown Heights.
The question never was so vividly presented to mortal mind as now to Barclugh, to learn the foundation for such intrepid feats in the presence of thoroughly disciplined European forces. Americans had no training or discipline; so, how did they maintain such superiority with such inferior numbers?
As Barclugh had not journeyed in the heart of American territory without being wide-awake to every bit of character, he had not forgotten the injunction of old Samuel Whitesides to visit his son-in-law, Benjamin Andrews. His home was five miles north of Morristown. Here he could rest and perhaps learn something.
North of Princeton the country begins to grow abruptly hilly, and at Morristown veritable mountains occur, with broad valleys stretching to the northeast and southwest. But beyond Morristown the country grows hard to travel through. The ridges grow steeper, the settlers fewer, and the timber thicker. The streams find a chance to gurgle around the rocks and roar over the falls. The wilderness impressed Barclugh. As his horse, that was now jaded, carried him upon a ridge, he stood, to take in the extensive landscape. When ridge upon ridge met his eye the immensity of the Colonial territory grew to a realization upon his mind. His journey was more than a revelation to him; it was a conviction of how little the King’s advisers knew about the conditions in America, while gaming around the green tables at Brooks’.
Nestling among the timber in the valley of the Whippany River was a settler’s log-house. It stood back from the roadside and was approached by a serpentine road, crude at present, but designed some day to grace more pretentious grounds. But what a pity the settler’s axe had not spared a few of those giants of the forest, whose degradation was evidenced by the blackened stumps of the clearing.
However, the pioneer had no time to consider anything but present utility in those days, and as Barclugh turned his horse down the road toward this house, he was met in the dooryard by Benjamin Andrews, whose six feet four of brawn and sinew had unmistakable characteristics of force and endurance. Simplicity of life and hard labor developed such men.
“May I have lodging and fodder for my horse?” said Barclugh as he rode up to the settler. “I have been directed to you by Mr. Samuel Whitesides, while travelling through Trenton.”
“Wal, I b’leeve you kin, if daddy Whitesides sent you here. Thomas, take the gentleman’s horse. Bless me, come in and get warm. My Nancy will be glad to hear from daddy. What’s the news from south’ard?” were the words of welcome of the settler, as he led the way to the latched door. He pulled on the string that opened into the large room that answered for kitchen, dining-room and sleeping-room, except for the loft that was used by the children to sleep in.
As Barclugh entered the log-house, he found Mrs. Andrews standing in the middle of the room, shyly holding her apron, and shielding a four-year-old boy who was holding on to her skirt and gazing at the stranger in amazement.
“Nancy, this gentleman was sent to us by daddy,” was the introduction of the stranger by the husband, and the wife curtsied, nodding her head as the youngster began to cry. But no name was necessary to be mentioned so long as he knew daddy.
However, Barclugh accepted the native hospitality, and cheerfully took the chair proffered him before the comfortable fireplace, while the housewife went silently about her duties.
Benjamin Andrews had been on his farm in the Whippany valley nearly two years, and he had a comfortable log-house well chinked and roofed with shakes riven out of white pine. A good-sized log-barn, thatched with straw, six head of cattle,—three cows and three yearlings,—one full sow and three porkers running about the yard,—two indifferent horses worth about four guineas each, constituted Andrews’ belongings. His land was one hundred and eighty acres, for which he paid forty pounds sterling, and about thirty-five acres of which was under tillage.
With willing hands, he and his family had started in the primitive forest to make a home. They had left the parental roof with three children and about thirty pounds in ready money, saved by several years of hard labor. They had two cows and a heifer, a pair of old horses, a sow, utensils, and a provision of flour and cider to take to their new home.
That night Barclugh sat in a large arm-chair before a blazing log fire, after he had done full justice to a bowl of fresh milk and cornmeal mush, also a plentiful portion of fried pork and boiled potatoes with their jackets on. Relays of creamy bread and rich, wholesome butter had done him more service, after his weary journey, than a dinner à la carte at the Café Rochefoucauld in his native Paris.
However, what rankled in the brain of Barclugh was the collection of so much real contentment and the enjoyment of much comfort and plenty in the wilderness in so short a time. Whence had it sprung? Could one man accomplish much in so short a period? Barclugh could not restrain his anxiety for enlightenment. He began to ask questions:
“How have you built such a fine home in so short a time, Mr. Andrews?” were the words addressed to the settler, who sat smoking his pipe, while the two older children hung around their father, gazing at the stranger from behind their father’s chair.
“Wal, it’s ben pritty hard work, but you see we’ve ben pritty lucky. When we fust came on the land, nigh on to two year ago, our neighbors,—”
“What, have you neighbors, Mr. Andrews?” interjected Barclugh.
“Wal, a few, sir. After we got on to the land, as I was sayin’, four of them came with their oxen and axes, and in two days we hed this here house put up and the floor hewed and the chimney built and then in the fall they came agin, but more on ’em, and we hed a barn-raisin’ and daddy was here and we hed a rip-roarin’ old time with that barrel of cider that I kept over and that five gallon of rum that daddy brought from taown.”
“But didn’t it cost you anything to do all of this?” was the inquiry of Barclugh, as he sat listening in amazement.
“Nary a farthing, ’cept the cider the boys had and the grub. But that summer I hed raised lots of ’taters and a good piece of corn and a piece of wheat in the clearance, the milk of the cows kept the sow goin’ and the chickens gave us lots of eggs. Nancy here” (who stopped and smiled at the mention of her name) “raised all those chickens,—but the first winter I hed a close shave on the cattle and horses, but I kinder looked ahead for that and the spring before I found a nat’ral medder down the river and I mowed abaout six acres of r’al good hay and stacked it up for caow feed. That was mighty lucky, for thet winter was hard and browsing was short in the woods for the cattle and the horses.”
“Oh, do you let your stock run loose in the winter, Mr. Andrews?” was the next interrogation.
“Why, sir, them old pelters of horses will find a bit o’ grass if it’s kivered six inches in snow, and two mile away. They’ll paw right through a crust of snow for a bite of nat’ral grass. But I keep them up at night and feed ’em in the stable. Cattle and horses do better to run out when the weather isn’t too cold.”
“But tell me, Mr. Andrews, how do you raise crops among those stumps?” was the question from Barclugh’s puzzled mind that broke the serenity of his amazement.
“Wal, Mister,’scusin’ my curiosity, but where were you raised? I guess they didn’t know much in them parts. For, I’d rather have ’taters on a piece of new ground. Then corn grows taller en your head in new ground. At fust we go in and cut out all the small trees, and girdle the big ones so that we can go in and clear and break up the new soil, for it’s meller and rich. Then we have loggin’-bees when a new settler comes into the neighborhood. In that way he gets a good boost.”
“Do you have to get up these bees, as you call them? What are bees?” continued our interrogator, who desired to make the most of his opportunity.
“Wal, that’s mighty queer you don’t know what bees are. Why they’re very common in these parts. But say, Mister, you must come from some seaport town where there’s no sich things. I guess you’re mighty green ennyhow, for bees ain’t new aroun’ here. Where air you from? I hain’t seed sich a greeny in all my life,” were the concluding words of Andrews, as he actually laughed aloud.
“I am from Philadelphia, Mr. Andrews,” replied Barclugh, who fully appreciated the confiding nature of the settler.
“But you’re not raised thar,” continued Andrews.
“No, in Paris.”
“But you’re not French.”
“Yes, I speak the language.”
“Do you know Mr. Franklin?”
“Certainly, I came here for him.”
“You did?” queried Andrews. “Look at that, Nancy,” continued Andrews, addressing his wife who sat knitting at the table listening to the men’s conversation. “This gentleman knows Benjamin Franklin. How’s the French takin’ up the cause?”
“Oh, they’re helping the Colonies,” replied Barclugh, but continuing, in order to get at his own line of thought, he asked:
“Do you need much money to buy these lands and start a home in the wilderness, Mr. Andrews?”
“Wal,” replied Andrews, “as far as money is consarned, nary a shilling have I made in two year, but I hed some to start on,—mighty lettle though, for I paid most on’t for the first payment on my land, and then I’ll have to wait till I git crops off this summer for the next payment. But you see, we raise our livin’ and the old folks at home make us some cloth for clothes while we’re startin’, so that by next year we can help ourselves right along.”
“So you have no use for money at home, but you get your pay for supplies furnished Mr. Washington, don’t you?” queried Barclugh.
“Wal, that’s all well understood among our people. When we have some pork or flour for the army, or beef or grain, we take it to our nearest depot and get a receipt for the stuff at the price paid, and when it’s signed by General Washington’s commissary that’s all the money we want for our transactions. Our receipts will be redeemed if Congress gains independence, and if we fail we shall not need the receipts, for we shall all be dead.”
This last bit of information killed all the enthusiasm in Barclugh’s breast, and, as he had observed Andrews’ children and wife ascend the ladder in the corner, leading to the loft, he yawned and began to wonder where he would sleep for the night.
Andrews noticed his evident desires and remarked:
“Mister, I b’leeve you better turn in for the night, and you will find your bed prepared in the corner where Nancy and I sleep, but we allus give it up to company,” were the parting remarks of Barclugh’s host, who turned and climbed the ladder into the loft.
Dawn was barely visible when the Andrews household was astir. Barclugh was up first, for he occupied the sole living-room. Then a good breakfast was soon steaming on the table,—consisting of fried pork, fried eggs, potatoes and bread and butter, and bowls of milk.
After doing full justice to the frugal meal, Barclugh started to prepare for departure. He found his horse, well groomed, standing hitched in the dooryard.
Going up to Mrs. Andrews, Barclugh thanked her for such a fine bed and such wholesome meals. He then took the little boy in his arms and kissed him while he congratulated the mother upon her well-behaved children.
As Barclugh stepped into the dooryard, he drew a guinea from his pocket and placed it in the hand of Benjamin Andrews, remarking while he did so:
“Mr. Andrews, you have been so kind and considerate of me, I wish to leave you my name and give you a small token of my appreciation of your generous and hearty hospitality. My name is Roderick Barclugh; I am on my way to General Washington’s headquarters, and I hope that I may see you again. If I can be of any service to you, I shall gladly be at your command.”
“Wal, Mr. Barclugh, I thought mebbee you had some desire to not give your name, and I couldn’t be rude enough to ask you. But you have mistaken Benjamin Andrews, when you offer him gold for his simple services to a friend of General Washington. I could not and I would not be guilty of this kind er hospitality. You may need this money before the war is over. I can git along fust-rate without it,” were the words of Andrews, as he looked straight into Barclugh’s eyes and held out the coin for its return.
Barclugh reluctantly took the piece of gold and being completely nonplussed at the sterling qualities of his backwoods host, he grasped him by the hand, and said with much earnestness:
“Sir, I honor your courtesy and your sentiments. May we meet again so that I can return your kindness. I thank you.” At that the rider turned and rode toward the gate.
But before Barclugh could reach the gate, little Sammy Andrews was on foot before him, and as the horse passed through the gate, already opened by Sammy, Barclugh beckoned the boy to come near him and pressed into his hand a small buckskin wallet containing two guineas, telling the boy at the same time:
“Sammy, take this to your mother with the best wishes of Mr. Barclugh.”
The boy flew toward the house, as Barclugh rode up the road, and soon disappeared over the hill, among the timber.
Passing through scenes which impressed upon Barclugh the virtues and the hardihood of the Colonists, he rode the whole day wondering how such noble souls as Benjamin Andrews were to be conquered. They were resourceful, self-reliant, and the peer of any Englishman in gentlemanly virtues. So long as they had no need or desire for the artificial demands of society their character remained absolutely unassailable. But in the cities, where luxury and old-world customs were imbued, there the power of money would be felt, and only there.
However, after six days of travel, the suborner of American character had had several good-sized shocks to his theories, and one of these was the fact that one hundred years ago or less, the ground over which he had travelled had been an unbroken wilderness, and now flourishing settlements and homes were met at every turn. What was Britain to do with four millions of earnest, fearless people launched in a war for independence? Oh, that the King’s advisers had known what he had seen! They would have paused and considered the demands of their people across the sea.
Such reveries were suddenly to cease, however, for passing out of New Jersey on the mountain road, Barclugh had passed into the confines of Ulster County, New York, when he was abruptly confronted by three armed men. He had been walking ahead and leading his horse after a long day’s travel and had no thoughts of war:
“Halt! Friend? or foe? Advance and give the countersign,” thundered out the leader of the three.
As Barclugh looked up he saw three gun-barrels levelled at him, and not losing his nerve replied:
“Friend! I will present my passport.”
The passport was the one from Arnold, commandant at Philadelphia. It ran as follows:
“Philadelphia, May 20, 1780.
“To Commander of American Outposts:
“The bearer of this passport, Mr. Pierre La Fitte, will be granted safe convoy and allowed to pass American outposts on his way to Fishkill.
“He has important business with the Commander-in-Chief, General Washington.
“(Signed) B. Arnold.
“Major-General & Com. at Phil.”
“All’s well, Mr. La Fitte,” came from the leader. “I spose you’re from the south’ard, and what news is there, sir?”
“No news, sir. What is the shortest road to Fishkill?” was the impatient answer of Barclugh.
“Methinks,” rejoined the leader, “that you are in a mighty haste. What be your profession, stranger?”
Drawing himself up to his full height, Barclugh replied:
“I am a financier.” Hoping thus to overawe the rustic soldiers.
“Ah, a financier, a financier, eh? Wal, you are the fust one that ever struck these parts. I guess you are too rare a bird to be travelling among our folks for no pains. I b’leeve we better pick your feathers a little and see what kinder skin you got!”
“Boys, if we scratch his skin we might find a Tartar, eh?” said the eldest of the three, and the other two laughed at his wit.
“Wal, I b’leeve if he’s a fi-an-cee man he oughter have a lackey or two along to black his boots,” said the second soldier as he nudged the leader in the ribs, “and powder his hair. Ha! ha! ha! Eh? boys?” continued the latter.
“Look here, you will be punished for these indignities, when I report you,” spoke up Barclugh, threateningly.
“Never mind, Mr. Feet, we know who is boss in this ’ere neck of the mountains, and we’ll apply first American principles to your case. I b’leeve the majority rules in this taown meetin’.”
“I say this feller is Mr. La Blackleg, and oughter peel off for a little inwestergation,—and all of those in favor of that motion will say ‘aye’!” Up went three hands and a mighty “aye” in unison.
“Carried,” yelled the leader.
Then the three laid strong hands on Barclugh.
Resistance seemed in vain for Barclugh, and he submitted, since he had prepared for just such an emergency. He was calm, and said:
“Gentlemen, I am perfectly agreed you should examine all of my papers, and take me to your headquarters.”
Barclugh took off his coat and handed it over; then he took off his brace of pistols, boots, socks and hat.
There were but two papers in his coat,—one the passport of Arnold, and another which the leader read, who then danced around in high glee, holding the letter high up in the air and shouting:
“Yi! yi! yi! We’ve got him, boys! Nary a bit of honest bizness are these fiancee men up to. How be it, he may be in-cog-ni-to, but I b’leeve he’s pritty nigh to findin’ out he’s in the wrong bizness for this country. Listen to this:
As read:
“Philadelphia, May 20, 1780.
“Sir:
“I take pleasure to recommend to your kindly consideration, Mr. Roderick Barclugh, who is a gentleman of substance and of good parts.
“He is on a secret mission for me to New York, to learn of the arrival of some important treasure ships of the English, and also to assist in our mutual business of privateering.
“He is traveling incognito and if you can further him on his journey, our common cause will be very materially assisted.
“With every sentiment of esteem and regard, I am, dear General,
“Your most obedient servant,
“(Signed) R. FitzMaurice.“To His Excellency, General Washington.”
“I told you! I told you!” said the leader, “he calls himself Mr. La Fitte, and here’s Mr. Barclugh on a secret mission to New York about some treasure ships. I wonder if he has any treasure aboard naow. Boys, you jest peel off that feller’s clothes a little more.”
The other two went at Barclugh with surprising energy, and examined every seam of his clothing, and brought off a buckskin belt that was around his waist, and the three went at its contents.
First they brought off fifty gold pieces, English guineas.
Then they felt some papers in a small pocket and lo, here were bills of exchange on the Bank of Amsterdam for eighty thousand pounds in gold.
The leader held the bills up and counted three each for twenty thousand pounds and two each for ten thousand pounds, and then turning to his companions, said seriously:
“That beats my reckonin’. Boys, this fellow is an infernal rascal, for he has more money on his person than any one man can honestly earn. Say, Mr. Feet, where did you git this treasure? Did you earn it? Did you find it? Does it belong to you?”
“Gentlemen,” replied Barclugh, “if you will conduct me to the camp of General Washington, I will present you with the guineas I have and any reasonable reward you may ask.”
“Nary a guinea will an American soldier ask from a stranger to perform his duty. You will be conducted safely, with every guinea you have, to Captain Thomas Storm and he will turn you over to Colonel Abraham Brinkerhoff, who has command of our precinct,” were the soldierly words of the spokesman of the party as he continued:
“Fall in, boys.”
They now took up the march in silence, leading the horse which carried their prisoner, bootless and sockless, on the saddle.
Their journey led Barclugh to Newburg, the headquarters of Colonel Brinkerhoff, who at once ordered the important prisoner with his papers to the headquarters of General Washington.
The Commander-in-Chief received the papers and went at once to his office, whither Roderick Barclugh had been conducted, and very graciously returned the bills and gold after reading the letter from R. FitzMaurice, the financier, with no remark except:
“I am very sorry, Mr. Barclugh, that you were handled so roughly yesterday by our outpost, but you will understand that they have orders to stop all travellers and search everybody that they do not know personally. The road is much used by the Tories and British going to and from Canada.”
“Our Colonel Hamilton has told me that he has met you at dinner at Mr. FitzMaurice’s and we would be pleased to have you stop over night with us. Our fare is plain, but we shall be pleased to make you as comfortable as possible.”
“I shall take great pleasure in accepting your kind offer, General, yet I shall be compelled to be away soon in the morning, since my business is urgent,” replied Barclugh as he looked squarely into the eyes of General Washington in order to drink in every word that this great and good man uttered.
“You shall be at your own pleasure, Mr. Barclugh. Colonel Hamilton will furnish you passports.
“Please excuse me further at present; Colonel Hamilton will be here to take you to our quarters. I will see you later on,” were the simple words of the Commander, as he left Barclugh and mounted his Virginia-bred horse for a review of a new battalion from Connecticut.
The town of Fishkill was one of those sleepy little settlements during the Revolutionary War, nestling in the shadow of a high promontory projecting into the Hudson. However, in a military way it was of great importance, since the great highway between New England and the Western States crossed the Hudson here; and an important depot of supplies was maintained there to furnish the needs of the northern army. The prison, strongly palisaded, the workshops for casting shot and cannon and the mills for making powder were maintained at this convenient spot.
The headquarters of General Washington and his staff while on a tour of inspection were generally assigned to one of the commodious farmhouses of the time on the highroad skirting the Hudson north of Fishkill. Washington and his military family were finely quartered. A short distance from the activities of the camp stood the commodious Colonial residence of Colonel Hay, on high ground overlooking a most wonderful scope of surrounding country. There was Newburg across the broad river; Storm King and Crow’s Nest loomed up in the vision out of the Hudson; and tier upon tier of the hazy blue Catskills rose in the northwest to soothe a soul’s longing for enchantment.
While seated in a tent on the grounds of the mansion, and while musing on the scene that lay before him, Barclugh was approached by the urbane and talented Colonel Hamilton, who escorted him to the house.
There Colonel Tilghman, one of the aides, was met. He conversed most delightfully with Barclugh for an hour or more, until dinner was spread and the General had arrived.
With the General came Generals Knox and Wayne to dine, and after a short presentation and exchange of compliments they all sat down to dinner.
The repast was simple,—served in the English fashion, eight or ten dishes filled with meat, poultry and vegetables, placed on the table and followed by a course of pastry. After this, the cloth was removed and apples and nuts in profusion were served. They were eaten during toasting and calm conversation. The General was very fond of this after-dinner intercourse, and prolonged it sometimes for two hours.
Barclugh now had the opportunity of his whole journey,—to observe the caliber of the men who held the fate of the Colonies in their hands. He was amazed at the bearing and conversation of Washington and his military family. The dignity and the ease with which they made one feel at his best, still, the reserve used, the high tone of the sentiments expressed, commanded not only respect but esteem for Washington and his cause.
The Commander conversed pleasantly with Barclugh,—but to penetrate the General’s business or to divine his plans was to attempt the impossible. There was a certain point to which one could approach in Washington’s confidence, but beyond that arose a barrier which no one could essay to surmount.
Such a feeling of remorse arose within Barclugh that his previous intentions of setting forth the virtues of Arnold waned and he could not muster the moral force to open upon Arnold’s assignment to West Point, unless the General asked about Arnold himself.
However, at eight o’clock Barclugh was summoned from his room to supper after the English custom.
The supper was simple also. It consisted of three or four light dishes, some fruit and above all a great abundance of nuts, which were as well received as at dinner.
After Washington, his military attaches and Barclugh had partaken of this light repast, the cloth was removed and a few bottles of claret and Madeira were placed on the table.
The toasts this evening were given by Colonel Hamilton, who was particular to mention several of the belles of Philadelphia, whom Barclugh had met. When it came the turn of Barclugh to propose a sentiment or a toast, he asked them, gracefully, to drink to the welfare and happiness of Miss Greydon of Dorminghurst, all of which was well received by those present.
Exactly at ten o’clock the members of the General’s staff presented themselves to Mr. Barclugh, and after customary formalities retired gracefully for the night, and left the General alone with his guest.
Washington filled the glass of Barclugh and then his own and while nibbling a few kernels of hickory nuts he said to his guest:
“When you left France, Mr. Barclugh, did you think that the French monarch would maintain an army for our cause?”
“There was no question about it, General Washington. Mr. Franklin told me as much when the full effects of Burgoyne’s surrender and the failure of Cornwallis and Howe to hold Philadelphia were realized. The French monarch was then encouraged to throw all of his resources against England,” replied Barclugh, hoping to put Washington off his guard, and have him grow enthusiastic for his cause.
But Barclugh was to be disappointed in this result. Washington again asked him a leading question:
“Mr. Barclugh, do you believe that the British can use heroic measures to offset the French aid?”
“Oh, yes, General. The British will be sure to exert themselves more than ever in that event. You know that the British have a great navy and great resources of money. When the power of money is put in the balance, the weaker force will have to succumb. That is the manner in which the Britons argue,” contended Barclugh, as he looked intently at Washington, waiting for his reply.
“Well,” replied the patriot patiently, “if the English reason that way, they forget that men have souls. Here is a nation of four million souls waging war against the most powerful of monarchs, and no money of our own. We came to America because we had no money; the nobility had control of it. We have built up a nation without money. However, we shall defend it without the Englishman’s money. Our people take the quartermaster’s receipts as eagerly as they would British sovereigns, and they pass current for all dues, because we have grown up in the confidence of mutual helpfulness. Destroy that confidence and the Englishman’s guinea becomes mere dross. If a ship were loaded with gold and human beings, in case of distress, the Englishman would sacrifice the human beings to save the gold, whereas the American would throw overboard the gold to save the human beings.
“But when a soldier fights on the battlefield simply to gain gold, he begins to think which is more valuable, life or gold, and he loses confidence in the gold; but when a soldier fights on a battlefield for civil or religious liberty, he becomes reckless of life and is willing to sacrifice all for liberty.
“Now, sir, we fear not the war of gold.”
“But, General,” argued Barclugh, “will not the commercial classes and the men of wealth be influenced by considerations of Britain’s gold?”
“The men of large wealth are already Tories, Mr. Barclugh, and against us. The commercial classes will be on whichever side their trade is encouraged. But the great mass of Colonists are agriculturists, whose virtue is above reproach and on whose hardihood and honesty of purpose this nation must place its reliance. If they stand firm and fight for the principles of our Declaration of Independence, this nation shall never perish, but if they allow artificial allurements of gold to buy their liberty, then we shall have expedience for our principles and laughter at our pretensions.”
Barclugh saw that principles had firm root in the Commander’s mind, but he thought that he would sound for any petty prejudice that might be lurking in his heart, so he cunningly said:
“However, you know, General Washington, that a great many Philadelphians seem to be ambitious after wealth. I have noticed some lukewarmness for the cause there.”
Whereupon Washington at once began to get reserved and continued the conversation by asking:
“Mr. Barclugh, have you any news of General Arnold?”
“Yes, the last time I met General Arnold, he complained about the great social demands upon him, and that to meet his expenses he was driven almost to distraction. I could think that this good man might be ruined in Philadelphia, by too much gayety. Then you know, General, that he was never before used to it.”
The Commander-in-Chief did not express an opinion about Arnold, but Barclugh observed that very careful mental note was made on what was said of Arnold. However, he continued by asking:
“When you have completed your mission in New York, how do you propose to return, Mr. Barclugh? I shall be pleased to serve you. I presume your mission is entirely of a business nature and you will fight shy of the military people,” in his most gracious and pleasing manner.
“I wish to return by way of the Jerseys, General. However, I may not be able to return at all.” Desiring to impress upon Washington the seriousness of his intentions, these were the concluding remarks of Barclugh’s important conversation.
After the exchange of a few civilities about Philadelphia people and the exchange of mutual compliments for the pleasant evening spent together, Roderick Barclugh arose and retired to his bed, determined to start early in the morning for New York,—a journey of sixty miles.
At sunrise, the next morning after the conversation with Washington, Roderick Barclugh started with his passport signed by Colonel Hamilton. He took up his journey on the road that leads south through the highlands on the east side of the Hudson to New York.
From Fishkill the road is hemmed in on both sides by steep hills. Glimpses of the river are obtained occasionally as a traveller reaches some vantage-point. An hour’s ride brought Barclugh to a view of a broad stretch of the Hudson, and there lay before him the object of all his travels and labors,—West Point in full view.
He leaped off his horse eagerly, and fastened him to a sapling. Then with spying-glass in hand, he found a seat which, in a commanding position on a high cliff, overlooked the scene like an amphitheatre below him.
Proceeding to sketch the redoubts, approaches and armament of West Point, Barclugh admired the location as a military stronghold and thought as he critically surveyed the situation:
“If that palladium of liberty can be assaulted and won with gold, General Washington may then admit that gold is mightier than either the sword or pen.”
However, he stood in thrilling admiration of this wonderful work of engineering skill which had been built by a nation that the English King had been wont to call barbarous. Here, frowning with cannon, were works that had risen out of a desert in less than two years, and which would have cost the English government five hundred thousand pounds sterling, but they had been built by Americans who did not expect pay.
Immediately above West Point the Hudson flows through two precipitous headlands almost face to face,—one upon the east and the other upon the west bank. After passing these two promontories the river makes a quick turn to the eastward, and then to the southward, thus forming a short bend and then stretching out into a straight reach of several miles.
On the point of land thus projecting into the bend of the river, six redoubts were bristling with cannon. They were located in the form of an amphitheatre, beginning at the lowest ground and extending to the highest summits. As the river here is surrounded by mountains, the construction was planned so that one redoubt commanded the next lower and also the river both up and down stream. A chain was stretched across the channel to stop ships of war. Two lofty heights opposite West Point protected the eastern bank with frowning cannon that overlooked the whole valley. One hundred and fifty cannon were counted by Barclugh in these strongholds, and a goodly part of them were the spoils of the American victory over Burgoyne.
“Was he to succeed in his plans to cause the downfall of such a military position?” recurred to his mind as he sought his horse and nervously turned his steps to the highway. There were now only fifty miles of a journey to King’s Bridge, the first British outpost.
His plans seemed to be working admirably, and he was thanking his luck that he had travelled thus far and no mishaps to block his game had occurred. As his horse galloped nearer the British position his hopes mounted higher, and he saw visions of the future, where he would be emulated for his part in the subjugation of the rebellious Colonists. Surely they would be better off under the protection of the powerful mother country than to pursue the mad career of independence. His reverie was suddenly brought to a termination when he came to a fork in the road where the question as to the wisest course to follow had to be determined.
The roads fork below West Point, and form two parallel routes to New York,—one following close to the Hudson, and the other, five miles back, taking the same direction. Barclugh had to rely on his chart and on his own judgment,—he thought the back road would be less frequented and consequently more to his liking,—so he chose the back road.
Everything went along serenely this day with Barclugh. He passed the last American outpost by simply presenting his passport from Colonel Hamilton and entered the neutral territory infested by roving bands of “cow-boys,” and “skinners,” as they were termed.
Arriving at the Croton River near sundown, Barclugh stopped at an inn kept by a Connecticut dame, whose husband, it was learned afterward, had gone to war to escape death at home from the length of his wife’s tongue.
When Barclugh arrived in sight of the inn he had visions of a square meal; for his ride since sunrise had aroused the demands of nature. But as he dismounted, somewhat of a surprise awaited him at the doorsteps in the person of a smallish woman, having a weazened face, a short, whittled-off nose, little, steel-blue eyes and a large mouth. The lips were thin, colorless and compressed in such a manner that no man dared to dispute her ability to bear down and insist upon her own, sweet way.
Without any preliminaries the woman commenced at Barclugh as soon as she saw him approach:
“I don’t b’leeve I can care for any strangers. Are you from the eastward? All my rooms are full. If I keep you at all I shall have to give up my own bed. Dunno what to do. Have you ready money or orders? If you have ready money I might take you, but I would have to charge you more. Are you a stranger in these parts? The next inn? Oh, that is thirteen miles beyond. You couldn’t reach it to-night. If you did, you would not like it anyway. The people there haven’t any family tree. Have I anything to eat? Oh, yes, but I wasn’t brought up to do this kind of work. Since Joshua went to the war I have had to wash the dishes and I am spoiling my hands. You are from Paris, eh? I always did like to entertain real gentlemen. I like Frenchmen, too; they are so polite—I suppose you are hungry. It’s La Fitte? Why that’s real aristocratic. My maiden name was Hopper. I was born in Haddam, old Haddam in Connecticut. My father was selectman in that town for forty years, and he was deacon nigh on to the same. ’Pears to me I used to know some French people. Yes, their name was, lemme see—oh, yes, they could not have been any kin of yours. Their name was La,—La Porte. If I had only known that I was going to have a real gentleman to-night from Paris, I might had a nice chicken and some ham and eggs.—You are a financier, eh? Oh, that’s real nice. I s’pose you’re married? No? Well, how delighted I am that you have come this way; come right in. You know I haven’t heard from Joshua for nigh on to two years—the poor man may be dead. Have I any children? Oh, no, Joshua and I always thought we ought to have had one and we were going to call him little Eli,” was the introduction Barclugh had to the Red Squirrel Inn presided over by Mrs. Charity Puffer.
Being put on his guard by the first onslaught, but concluding that she was harmless, Barclugh determined to learn more of the American phenomenon before his departure.
Mrs. Puffer led her guest to the sitting-room, flew up stairs, told her cook that a gentleman of quality was there for supper, put on a clean dress, spread a clean table-cloth, flew out to have a chicken killed, brought out a couple of pieces of silver that used to be in Deacon Hopper’s family and then came in and sat down before her guest.
Every moment of talk that was wasted in getting supper ready seemed an irretrievable loss to her existence,—especially when she had some one on whom to ply her vocation.
“Don’t you think that I would make a smart wife for a nice rich man?” she began again. “This life in the country nearly kills me. You know I never had to live this way before I married Mr. Puffer. He brought me out here and I have had to work my fingernails off. Don’t you see how poor I am? I was a beautiful young woman and he couldn’t furnish me any servants. I worked and worked, for I was so industrious. What was he doing all this time? Poor man, he was laid up with a disorder like a fever, and I had to nurse him and care for him. Then he got discouraged. Well, I couldn’t teach him anything. He was so obstinate.—He wouldn’t dress himself up like I wanted and I had the hardest time to get him to take me to meeting.—He didn’t want to wear gloves, so I used to say to him: ‘Father, you must try and look nice,’ and he would say: ‘Jest so, Charity.’ He would hold his hands and arms straight down by his sides and his fingers out stiff when I put gloves on him. Well, I used to get so provoked, because he knew better than that. When I used to say: ‘Father, you must let your hands hang kind o’ natural,’ he would say: ‘Jest so, Charity.’ Well, I want to tell you, when the war broke out I just made up my mind that father had to go to war or I would go myself. So he went one day, when I hit him with the boot-jack, and I haven’t seen him since.
“Oh, yes, supper will be ready in a very short time. It takes so long for supper to cook when the fire don’t burn. Did I ever have any beaux? Yes, I was forgetting to tell you about a beau I once had, when I was a gay and young woman. His name was Nehemiah, and he used to come around before I knew Joshua. Well, Nehemiah came one evening to see me and I was not in good humor at all. After the old folks had left us to spark a little, I moved over to one end of the settle, and when Nehemiah moved toward me, I sat up as stiff as a stake and I turned my back on him and never spoke once to him that whole evening. Well, at last when I wouldn’t speak or stir, he got skeered and I haven’t seen his face from that day to this. Well, I must tell you, Mr. La,—LaFeet, I don’t like men anyway.”
“Oh, yes, I perceive you don’t, nor anything to eat either,” chuckled Barclugh.
“Oh, yes, you see it is such a pleasure for me to converse with a gentleman that understands my better qualities and can appreciate the fact that he comes into the environment of a refined and well-bred lady. You know that there are so many inn-keepers who are vulgar. They haven’t any china that has been in the family for two generations,—no plate, nor manners. My sakes! I have been forgetting all about supper with my stories,—”
“About yourself,” interjected Barclugh.
“Jest so, Mr. Feet. I’ll go out and see if Betty has the supper on the table.”
As soon as Mrs. Puffer disappeared, Barclugh drew a long breath and exclaimed:
“Whew! whew! I’ll have a time to get something to eat here!”
“Why! what do you think, Mr. Feet? Supper has been ready a long time. My Betty can cook a chicken, boil a ham and make tea quicker than anybody I ever knew. Come right along this way.
“I’ll sit down with you and I know you will enjoy your supper. Will you be seated right there? Here is some chicken. I never eat any meat for supper, myself, before going to bed. I drink my cup of tea. Oh, can’t you cut the chicken? Oh, that’s too bad. Just sharpen the knife a little. That’s it. Just put a little muscle into it.—Well, I declare, Betty just half boiled that chicken. If you can wait a little I shall take it out and boil it a little more.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Puffer,” said Barclugh, as he sat down out of breath, after he had stood up to carve the fowl.
“Here’s some bread and butter, Mr. Feet. I do enjoy Betty’s bread and butter. It’s about all I care to take for my supper.”
“Madam, is that some ham, on the other side of the table?” queried Barclugh, as he saw that he would have to take matters into his own hands, if he were to have any supper.
For the first time, Mrs. Puffer looked embarrassed, as she replied:
“Yes, that is one of those celebrated hams that are cured in Connecticut. It came from old Haddam, and it is well seasoned. Yes, my father used to cure those hams fifty years ago.”
“Not that one, I hope, Mrs. Puffer?” helplessly queried Barclugh.
“Oh, no, not that one, Mr. Feet, but he used to cure them just like that.—Will you have some more tea? There’s plenty of tea. Oh, yes, I knew you would. Just one drop of milk and I wonder if Betty put on enough sugar? Well, you can excuse the sugar this time. There, I told Betty to cook you some eggs, but she has forgotten. I know that you wouldn’t care for any ham if you didn’t have eggs to eat with it. You will have some more bread and butter, I know you will.”
“Yes, madam, if you please, I will take some of that ham also, and make myself a sandwich,” insisted Barclugh, for matters were desperate for his stomach’s sake.
“Very well, Mr. Feet. I will take it over to the sideboard, and prepare you one, myself,” was the offer of Mrs. Puffer, expecting her guest to say: “No, thank you, it will be too much bother.”
But not that way for Barclugh. He arose from the table and said:
“Allow me to assist you. I will take it over to the sideboard for you,” wishing to be agreeable.
“No! No! you mustn’t do that! I couldn’t allow you! I will do that myself,” interposed Mrs. Puffer, as she jumped up hastily and grabbed the platter to take the ham off the table, when the so-called ham rolled to the floor and bounced up like a rubber ball, for it was as hollow as a fiddle, and made of wood.
Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired out.
Mrs. Puffer picked up the wayward morsel and placed it on the sideboard.
Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired out.
She sat down as coolly as though she had used the ham before, and broke the silence by saying:
“Mr. La Fitte, you know how it is when you have to trust to servants. I have that dish of ham for an ornament on the sideboard, but Betty had to place it on the table this evening. That is just like those girls. They do not know better.”
There was nothing for Barclugh to do now but to eat bread and butter, and fill up on tea and talk.
When a man is disappointed in his meal he begins to get ugly. So Barclugh arose from the table, went into the sitting-room and demanded his bill and declared that he would have to leave for the next stopping-place.
But Mrs. Puffer objected, by saying:
“Oh, no, Mr. La Fitte, you know that these roads are infested with ‘cow-boys’ and ‘skinners,’ and you may be captured and robbed.”
“Which party is it that you belong to, Mrs. Puffer?” asked Barclugh. “I should think that you belonged to the latter.”
From without the house loud shouts of “Hello!” “Hello!” were heard on the road.
Mrs. Puffer turned to Barclugh exclaiming:
“Some of those rascals are there now. You better hide yourself somewhere.”
“Never mind, madam,” replied Barclugh, and handing over a sovereign to pay his fare, continued, “I can take care of myself.”
At that instant a burly fellow in the uniform of a Continental walked in.
“Any strangers here to-night, Mrs. Puffer?” came in heavy tones from the soldier.
“There’s one gentleman here, Mr. La Fitte. I believe he can give a good account of himself,” replied the landlady.
“What’s your business here, Mr. La Fitte? Where are you going?” demanded the soldier.
“Here’s my passport, sir,” was the reply, and Barclugh handed out the Colonel’s document.
“You’re the sort of a party we want!” remarked the fellow, as he went to the door and whistled, meanwhile holding his pistol ready and eying Barclugh.
Four of his companions came into the room, and at once the spokesman ordered:
“Fasten his arms, men. He’s a spy.”
Barclugh submitted while wondering why his passport was not sufficient.
After the squad had searched Barclugh and disarmed him, they marched him out and ordered him to mount his horse and ride between them.
However, when the troopers started off their course led them to the southward. They acted queerly to Barclugh. They crossed the Croton at Pine Bridge and went toward the Hudson. In any event he was all right unless the scamps were bent on robbery. However, he did not lose his nerve. Finally, after an hour’s ride and silence, the prisoner ventured this question:
“Gentlemen, I am a prisoner in the hands of which party?”
“You are a prisoner of His Majesty King George III. No talking, sir, we are on dangerous ground.”
Barclugh’s spirits at once mounted high. As soon as he reached a British post, he would despatch a cipher message to General Clinton in New York and he knew that at once he would be escorted to secret quarters in the town.
To understand Barclugh’s perilous position in the country through which he was now passing, a few facts concerning the conditions existing in the spring of 1780 must be stated.
From the upper part of Manhattan Island or King’s Bridge to the Croton River was neutral ground, during the British occupancy of New York. The British sent out reconnoitering parties toward the American lines and the Americans would reconnoitre toward the British. Independent bands of Tories called “cow-boys” raided into this territory, and foraged upon the inhabitants who did not sign allegiance to the King. Then the American bands called “skinners” raided upon the loyalists. The real warfare of these parts consisted in these lawless bands watching each other when on raids and if the “cow-boys” had a good drove of animals, the “skinners” attempted to disperse the band and appropriate the spoils. The whole of the lower part of Westchester County was thus kept in distress during nearly all of the Revolutionary War by the ravages of these bands.
On the night in question, when Barclugh was a prisoner in the hands of his friends, the party was ascending a steep hill in silence and surrounded by dense forest, when suddenly out of the night air and darkness rang a voice within a hundred feet:
“Surrender, you devils!” and the clicking of a dozen flintlocks sounded in quick succession.
At the sound of such a number of clicks, the five British whirled on their horses and dashed down the hill and Barclugh did as the rest, but he was in the rear since he did not understand their tactics of retreat.
A volley followed the foe, retreating in the dark. Barclugh’s horse was shot, and threw his rider headlong with such violence that he was stunned and rendered unconscious. One of the fleeing British dropped his flintlock in the fracas.
The attacking party chased the fleeing British, yelling and exchanging pistol shots. They returned when sure that the “cow-boys” were out of harm’s way and picked up the unconscious form of Barclugh. He was still unconscious when placed against a tree next to the roadside.
After being administered a good drink of rum, Barclugh opened his eyes and asked:
“Gentlemen, where am I?”
“You are a prisoner,” replied the leader.
“I was a prisoner,” insisted Barclugh.
“You are still one,” came the sharp reply.
A fire had been lighted by this time and all were warming their fingers in the chilly air of the May night.
Barclugh gazed around and noticed that all wore the red coats of the British. He realized that he might better be good-natured over his captivity. He turned to his captors, with the remark:
“Gentlemen, I have been a prisoner twice since sundown,—once the prisoner of King George by a party in Continental uniform, and now a prisoner a second time by a party of redcoats. Please inform me whose prisoner I may be now.”
“Where did they git you?” asked the leader. “Did they git you in that Red Squirrel Inn?” at which the whole party laughed.
“I b’leeve he tried to git a piece of that wooden ham,” sung out one of the party, and there was another burst of laughter.
“Could you cut that chicken?” repeated another.
“Well, gentlemen, I gave up the chicken as a bad job, broke the ham, paid Mrs. Puffer a sovereign and got no change, being glad to escape alive; for she told me she had hit Joshua with a boot-jack,” at which recital the whole party roared and some of the younger fellows rolled on the ground in delight.
“Did she tell you how beautiful she used to be and how she froze out Nehemiah?” was the next question that gave them all a chance to laugh again.
“Yes, indeed, and she asked me if I ‘didn’t think she would make a smart wife for a nice rich man?’ but I didn’t get a chance for a word in edgewise for an answer,” related Barclugh to the intense delight of the whole party.
“Wal, stranger, I guess you are a purty good fellow. Where did you come from and where are you going?” asked the leader of Barclugh.
“I came from the headquarters of General Washington this morning and gave my passport to those scamps and now they have carried it off.”
“Wal, if you are able to travel we will take you to General Washington’s headquarters right away; for you are a prisoner of the Westchester Independents, and General Washington is at Verplancks Point to-night.”
Barclugh was not much the worse for his mishap, except that his shoulder was strained and he was bruised on the side of his face where he had slid down the hill.
He procured a new horse, proceeded to headquarters under the escort of two troopers, and being recognized by Colonel Hamilton, proceeded on his journey next morning.
He rode through the American lines by way of Tarrytown and was not molested by either party until he surrendered himself to the sentinel of King George at King’s Bridge.
When Barclugh arrived at King’s Bridge, the time was midnight, and as he was muffled and his name was assumed he had little risk of meeting any person who would suspect his business.
He informed the sentinel that he must see the officer of the guard at once.
Upon the officer coming to the guard house, Barclugh requested that a note be sent without delay to General Clinton, the British Commander, as information of the first importance must be sent to headquarters.
So the officer despatched a horseman to the Beekman House at full speed with the following note:
“King’s Bridge, May 28, 1780.
“Sir: I have the honor to announce my arrival at King’s Bridge. I must be conducted to a safe retreat at once. My plans have carried but I am very much battered by travel and narrow escapes.
“(Signed) Pierre La Fitte.
“To General Clinton,
“Commander of H. M. Forces in America.
“Beekman House.”
Within three hours Major Andre arrived alone with an extra horse at Fort Knypthausen, the defense at King’s Bridge, and after a few subdued words with the officer of the guard, Barclugh was hurried to a horse. His former animal was turned loose on the road to find its way back to Verplancks Point. Thus no trace of Barclugh could be followed on account of the horse that he had ridden.
Not a word was spoken by Andre to Barclugh in the guard house. Andre ordered the officer to release the stranger. The officer told Barclugh that he was to leave the guard house and follow Major Andre until the horses were found, and to not speak until well out of hearing.
After Andre had travelled a few hundred yards away from Fort Knypthausen, Major Andre grasped Barclugh by the hand and said:
“Mr. Barclugh, I am glad to see you. How are you?”
“I am nearly dead, Major Andre,” replied Barclugh, “I have been captured and made prisoner three times. I was fired on last night and my horse was killed. But after a hard journey, I am here with my plans working.
“Arnold is committed to treason. I have the plans and strength of West Point, and a great amount of information for the Commissioners.”
“Grand! Magnificent!!” exclaimed Andre. “We need a stroke like this to arouse the nation, and counteract the French coalition with America. I am devoted to your plan. I believe patents of nobility and grants of land are the only means that will subdue the Americans. Of course, results must first be brought about by the judicious use of gold to gain the leaders.
“However, Mr. Barclugh,” continued Andre gaily. “How is my friend, Mrs. Arnold? We used to have such gay times while in Philadelphia. Does she not sympathize with our social life? I have heard that after our evacuation of Philadelphia, the event was celebrated by a grand ball given by the Whig element, but, when it came to a list of those who should be invited, enough belles could not be found unless the Tories were included. So the whole list of ladies that attended our grand heraldic pageant, the Mischianza, had to be invited to be present to have a success. The Shippens, the Chews, the Bonds, the Redmans, the Willings and the whole list of our friends were there. Any of the ladies of the first circles who will not stand for the principles of aristocracy is a rara avis.”
“But you forget, Major Andre,” argued Barclugh, “that when you do find such a lady, you will have a gem of the finest brilliancy. Such a one will be a Whig out of principle, whereas a woman becomes a Tory out of sentiment,” as he recalled the argument between Mollie Greydon and Mrs. Arnold at the dinner party at Robert FitzMaurice’s.
Andre’s quarters were reached after the exchange of many pleasantries, and the soldier showed the financier a room and bed and gave the key to Barclugh to guard himself against any intrusion. Barclugh was now safely quartered where he could carry out his business with the utmost secrecy.
The remainder of that night and the next day were spent in bed by Barclugh. He was suffering severely from the fall off of his horse, the night before his arrival.
Major Andre had meals brought to his own room, and then quietly carried the meals to Barclugh himself.
After two days and two nights of rest and nursing and a supply of clean linen, Barclugh was sufficiently recovered to be escorted, in the dead of the night,—when nothing was astir in the old Dutch town but the solitary sentinel—to the Beekman mansion, the present location of 52nd Street and Broadway. Here were the quarters of General Clinton.
Major Andre had his permanent quarters at No. 1 Broadway, and when he and Barclugh walked out of the rear of these quarters a chaise and postillion were ready for the financier and his escort to be driven in haste to General Clinton.
Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander of the British forces in North America, spent much of his time at his country house, the former mansion of Dr. Beekman, and on the night in question he was anxiously waiting to greet Roderick Barclugh.
His career had been unfruitful of results in America thus far, as he had failed to aid Burgoyne, and, after evacuating Philadelphia, and retreating by land to New York, had suffered disaster at Monmouth; he had failed in his attack on Fort Moultrie, and now his whole career was centered upon the capture of West Point by intrigue.
Seated in one of the upper chambers of the Beekman house were Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander, Lord Carlisle and William Eden, M. P., Commissioners of the British government to America.
Lord Carlisle was the life-long friend of George Selwyn,—the wag of English society and court circles in London at this time. William Eden, a mere figure-head and courtier, was the intimate friend and political supporter of both Carlisle and Selwyn. Charles Fox was the brains and political force for this entire coterie, so that the presence of Carlisle in America on his mission is obvious, since Fox was irretrievably in debt to Carlisle and Selwyn. Furthermore, Fox had been the associate of Carlisle at Eton and they had grown up to be inseparable cronies; both were involved in all the noted gambling escapades at Brooks’ and Almack’s for the previous ten years.
Besides the Commander and the two Commissioners, the room contained a large round table and a sideboard well supplied with Madeira and claret. This chamber was used for councils of war by General Clinton. A map of the thirteen Colonies and the seaboard was lying carelessly on the table. Carlisle and Clinton were discussing the losses at the gaming table the night before and Eden was snuggling up to a newly-opened bottle of Madeira, while seated in a large arm-chair, enjoying a pipe of tobacco.
Barclugh entered the room, following Major Andre, and was received by the three very, very cordially, but with much formality, as they had met on serious business.
Here were five men authorized to treat with the Colonists in any manner that would win them back to the allegiance of the King. They could wage war, confiscate property, starve prisoners, offer rewards for treason, offer to concede every demand of the Colonies for their political welfare except independence. The utmost desire of the Commissioners was to effect some compromise with the leaders of the revolution and preserve allegiance to the mother country.
Roderick Barclugh was a very important personage in this council. He had done important service in Paris for the financial interests of the English government, and was now working out plans to stop the war for the benefit of England’s Exchequer, so that, whatever he said had much weight.
They all listened most intently to the recital of his advent into Philadelphia’s commercial circles,—because he had much capital at his command. How he became acquainted with the weakness of Arnold, through the oyster vender, Sven Svenson, and how he interested Arnold in privateering enterprises, all was heard with much interest. Then the final surrender of Arnold to the proposition of treason, for twenty thousand pounds sterling and a brigadier’s commission in the British army, was received with profound satisfaction.
When Barclugh told of his journey, his being captured three times and his interview with Washington, they listened with wonder; but when he told of the experience with the Connecticut dame at the Red Squirrel Inn and the wooden ham, the whole party laughed long and heartily.
At the conclusion of the narrative, Barclugh turned to General Clinton and said brusquely:
“General Clinton, Arnold has been paid part of his price, and I shall turn the military end of the business over to you. He will get his assignment to West Point and you must carry out the details of the plans already entered into. He will correspond with you under an assumed name, and his language will have the entente of carrying out some large commercial transactions.”
“Mr. Barclugh, the conception and execution of your plans have been magnificent, and I shall entrust the fulfilment of them to my able, young adjutant, Major Andre,” graciously assented General Clinton, as he turned with beaming eyes and countenance to his staff officer.
“But, gentlemen,” continued Barclugh, “my task at Philadelphia is but commenced. My desires are to finish my business here as soon as possible and return to start my next enterprise. I have the people and plans engaged to start a bank in this country. It is to be known as the Bank of North America. The model is to be our Bank of England, and we shall have the government of this country so closely allied with this institution that only safe measures of legislation will be allowed.
“Our great obstacle in overcoming the rebellion in our Colonies is the lack of any centralizing power to draw all the men of substance into one party and the poor devils into another. The reason is that there are no organizations to control the accumulation of property.
“Life and industry create property, and money has been sanctioned by custom to represent property; but an artificial system can be established to control money; therefore, whoever controls the money of a nation controls its life and industry.
“Commissary receipts answer as well for money now as gold, but if we have a corporation of leading men of substance who lose their individual interests in the policy of the bank, why, we can issue a dictum that gold only will be received as money; then the vital interests of thousands at once are merged into the centralized body.
“Let me establish a bank in Philadelphia, and I shall lay the foundations of a rich man’s party that will bring the Colonists to the institutions of the mother country more effectually than armies or navies ever can.
“If the armies will conquer and hold the valley of the Hudson, and if the military will conquer and hold the southern provinces, the power of money will take Philadelphia with no loss of life. Then the Americans will tire of the war and be glad to surrender to the fair offers of His Majesty’s Commissioners.”
Lord Carlisle rubbed his hands with an excited air of satisfaction and said enthusiastically:
“Mr. Barclugh, you have outlined the whole matter. Nothing more is necessary. Eden and I are mere figureheads here, waiting for a decisive blow, so that we can ply our vocation.
“The army must act now on your initiative and the results are sure to be forthcoming,” continued Carlisle.
“Gentlemen,” proposed Lord Carlisle, as he arose with his glass partly filled with Madeira, “success to Mr. Barclugh and his enterprise.”
They all drank their Madeira, standing, in honor of Barclugh.
The financier arose after the compliment paid to him and said modestly:
“Gentlemen, I thank you for your expression of regard.” Then, raising his glass he continued: “My best wishes for a speedy conclusion of war between Great Britain and her Colonies on constitutional grounds.”
The sentiment was received heartily by the others, and with glasses raised high all drank deeply as only Englishmen can drink,—with no “heel-taps.”
The conference being over, General Clinton took Barclugh by the arm and escorted him to another room for his arrangements to return to Philadelphia. The other three remained in the council chamber, to see that King George, the aristocracy and British sordidness, were well remembered with innumerable glasses of Madeira.
Lord Carlisle and William Eden were ordinary representatives of English hangers-on to royalty’s apron strings. Both were fat and lymphatic. No enterprise thrilled their souls. They were more than pleased to accept the established order of their condition so long as the government was good,—to them and theirs. They were as pliable as putty in the hands of the controlling influence of the monarchy. They wanted a fat living out of government with little service in return.
William Eden had his hobby, especially when a chance to tell it over his Madeira offered. Filling his glass, and turning to Carlisle, he stupidly rehearsed his theories:
“My Lord, you know I have very decided policy in regard to subduing the King’s enemies. (By Jove, that’s good Madeira.)
“To make it the interest of Congress to close with us (the King’s Commissioners) will be of the first consequence. (How’s that, Andre?)
“Well, from the many conversations which I have held with the men of substance here in New York and from the nature of things, you know that we ought to propose a scheme of government (My Lord, a government as is a government), by a Parliament in the Colonies, composed of an order of nobles or patricians,—and a lower house of delegates from the different Colonial assemblies,—to be given to the provinces upon their return to allegiance to our King.”
“That’s it, that’s it, Eden, allegiance is what we want,” interjected Carlisle, enthusiastically.
Another glass of Madeira and Eden laboriously gathered up his avoirdupois and continued:
“That form of government would have a general influence upon the minds of those who now possess authority in America, as their present precarious power would be by this means secured to themselves and handed down to their descendants.”
“You have the idea all right, Mr. Eden,” said Carlisle, as he slyly winked at Andre, “but we must have some others to listen to us than these bottles of Madeira and Major Andre.
“Now, Eden,” continued Carlisle, “let’s have one glass to the words of Dr. Johnson:
“‘That patriotism is the first business of scoundrels.’”
After this last appeal to Bacchus for inspiration, these two pillars of British statesmanship found that they needed the assistance of Major Andre to help them to their bed-chambers.
While the commissioners were exchanging empty platitudes, and drinking the wine furnished by the Crown, the real business of the evening was being concluded between General Clinton and Barclugh. As soon as General Clinton had led the way to an airy bed-chamber Barclugh began to unfold his plans:
“General Clinton, I must not delay here one minute longer than necessary, for Washington has this town filled with spies, and my detection here, at this house, means disaster.”
“How do you propose to return to Philadelphia?” asked General Clinton.
“My plan,” replied Barclugh concisely, “is to return as far as possible by water. I wish that you could put me aboard one of your small armed cruisers and send me down into one of those numerous inlets that are opposite Philadelphia on the Jersey coast. I can be furnished a small boat, and in case of capture I can pretend to have escaped from an English vessel. In any event I shall be taken to Philadelphia and turned over to Arnold.”
“That’s an excellent plan, Barclugh, and I have just the man to perform the task,” said Clinton, “Captain Sutherland of the Sloop Albatross. I shall send for him at once, and have you secreted on board to-night, and then you can rest from your former journey. I know that Washington’s spies are among us, and that you must be spirited away or you will surely be traced to us.”
While the two were waiting for Captain Sutherland, for whom an order had been despatched to report at the Beekman house for duty orders, Barclugh went over the details for the fruition of Arnold’s plot. The correspondence was to be conducted between Barclugh and Major Andre. Barclugh would sign as Gustavus; Andre would reply as John Anderson. Barclugh would turn over his letters to Arnold so that no traces could be found for detection. As Barclugh was known among his commercial associates to be in touch with merchants in New York, he could correspond with little suspicion.
When Captain Sutherland was announced in the office below, General Clinton brightened up and arose as he addressed his associate:
“Well, well, Mr. Barclugh, have you all of your effects ready to depart? I dislike to have you leave us so informally, but duty calls and there we are.”
“Oh, I’m ever ready,” was Barclugh’s prompt reply. “My whole wardrobe and effects are on my person.”
Captain Sutherland was ordered to proceed down the coast of Jersey, and land his passenger on the Jersey coast opposite Philadelphia, but in no case to sacrifice the safety of the passenger. Obey the passenger as to the place and manner of landing, and in no case to let his presence on the ship be known. Not even Captain Sutherland could be informed as to the business or name of Barclugh; he was simply introduced as Mr. Gustavus.
The Captain of the Albatross and Barclugh mounted their horses and proceeded to Paules’ Hook landing in the early hours of the morning.
When Barclugh and his companion had reached the landing and were walking briskly to the ship’s boat, out of the darkness came the figure of a female, who walked up to the two and touched Barclugh on the arm.
Barclugh stopped in amazement and looked upon the creature inquiringly, and asked:
“My good woman, what can I do for you?”
“Nothing, sir,” sweetly replied the mysterious woman, “I was looking for my brother who was coming down to the ferry, and I thought that you were he,” she continued in the voice of a well-trained Indian girl.
Barclugh was in a hurry to embark and did not make any note of the incident, for he could not clearly see the face of his questioner in the darkness. He passed on and boarded the Albatross, as he thought to himself, to perfect his security.
“Say, Bill, if this brig gets into blue water without a tussle I miss my reckonin’,” dryly remarked one of the old sea-dogs to his companion, as the two leaned on the ship’s rail next to the cat-head. “The coast is swarming these days with lime-juicers and if we fall into their net, we’d wish to have our grog sent down to Davy Jones’ locker, where we’ll all be if Sammy Risk has a thing to do with it. He’d blow us all up before he’d strike.”
“Look a’ here, Hank, you old growler, if Sammy Risk can’t show as clear a pair of heels to them Britishers as ever vanished out of a spying-glass,” replied old Bill Weathergage, “then I’ll take all the jobs of slushin’ and swabbin’ that the boys ought’er do for a for’night on the cruise.”
“Mind what ye’re sayin’, Bill.”
“I’ll do it, you old figger-head.”
The privateersmen were discussing probabilities as the Holker lay in the stream below Philadelphia awaiting Captain Risk to fill out his complement of sixty-five men. Roderick Barclugh had started on his journey and the flour was all on board. The Holker stood up like a church steeple with her cargo stowed away in her hold and hatches all battened down, waiting for a passage outside the capes. Her armament was three short six-pounders forward, and three long nine-pounders aft, being the batteries on port and starboard; a long twelve-pounder bow chaser and a long eighteen-pound quarter-deck stern chaser. A heavy eighteen-pound swivel amidships completed the ship’s metal.
She was equal to many of the King’s cruisers in armament, and excelled two-thirds of them in sailing qualities.
Word came up the river that a brace of the King’s cruisers were standing off Cape May, ready to pounce upon any Yankee that chanced to run the blockade.
The best chance was for Captain Risk to run the gauntlet in the dark, so that the tenth day after Barclugh had left Philadelphia, he quietly weighed anchor and slipped past the forts and stood off into the roadstead, waiting for a chance to slip out.
The night came on dark and boisterous, so that word was passed to get under weigh, as the weather looked nasty from the sou’-sou’east, and as the enemy would have to stand off the coast for sea-room, Captain Risk took advantage of the opportunity to make blue water.
Setting his foresail, main and fore-topsail, and reefing down for a scud up the coast, Captain Risk jammed into the wind from the cover of the river and made for the offing.
All lights were out and the binnacle was hooded. A double watch was called on deck and the Holker tacked into the teeth of the gale until the capes were fully two hours astern. The wind was moderating when orders came to make her course nor’east by north. The yards were braced in, and as the wind now came from abaft the beam, she was bounding before the gale and scudding from wave to wave.
The moon was two hours high, and was peering through rifts in the clouds. The sea was settling to a long swell. Every one on deck began to feel that no danger was near, when the lookout sang sharply:
“Sail, ho.”
“Where away?” asked Captain Risk, as he stood on the port quarter, glass in one hand, and the other on the main shrouds.
“Three miles on the lee bow. He is bearing down on the port tack, sir,” returned the man aloft.
“That’s well. All hands!” commanded Captain Risk, as he turned to his lieutenant, Mr. Ripley, saying with assurance:
“We have the weather and can keep him guessing.”
All hands were called and sent to quarters and both broadsides were loaded with grape and round shot for close action.
When the enemy bore down within easy hailing distance, he asked through his trumpet:
“What ship is that and where away?”
“This is the Privateer Holker, sir,” replied Captain Risk.
“You better haul down those colors, or I’ll blow you to smithereens,” returned the man-o-war’s man.
“Not yet, my hearty. Fire away, Flannagan,” shouted Captain Risk to the Englishman.
“Now then, let them have it, my lads!” commanded the privateersman sharply.
The bright moonlight afforded good aim and the execution of the broadside spread consternation among the enemy and cut into his foreshrouds.
The enemy’s broadside flew high, and cut into the Holker’s rigging as the ship rolled, with no serious damage.
The Holker’s crew now braced in their yards and shot under the stern of the enemy, who had to come about on the starboard tack to ease his injured shrouds.
Captain Risk now had the Englishman at his mercy. When under full headway, he wore ship and brought the starboard battery into short range, thus raking the cruiser from stem to stern.
Both ships were now on the starboard tack and the Holker in the weather position. The Englishman came up on the port tack to cross the Holker’s bow for a rake, but the foxy Risk brought his ship up for the port tack, too, and filled away so fast that the broadside went astern.
The chance now came for Risk. The Englishman would have to wear ship, to bring his starboard broadside into action. As quick as a flash, Risk came about on the starboard tack, passed astern and raked the cruiser a second time from stem to stern. The execution was so severe that every one of the starboard main-shrouds was carried away and the Englishman was thrown into utter confusion on his deck.
The Holker had the Englishman so that his only chance was to wear ship, but his masts could not stand the strain. So the privateer came around on the port tack and came booming alongside, within pistol range, and delivered another broadside of grape that cut the crew to pieces and sent a large part of them writhing on his deck.
But the cruiser’s crew was plucky, for now a running fight commenced. The Englishman got in a telling broadside, that cut the binnacle from under Captain Risk’s feet, and killed Mr. Ripley at his side. The privateer, on account of her superior sailing qualities, had to tack to bear up to her antagonist and keep from running out of range. The fire of the cruiser was getting nervous and irregular and the privateer delivered a terrific broadside that drove the men that were splicing the shrouds, under the bulwarks. As the Holker was closing in to board under cover of the smoke, a voice on the privateer’s foretop sang out:
“’Vast firing. She has struck.”
Captain Risk ordered his second lieutenant to board and find out her name and the damage inflicted.
The ship was the General Monk, a brig of two hundred tons, commanded by Lieutenant Churchill of His Majesty’s service. She carried sixteen long nine-pounders and two long twelve-pounders for stern and bow chasers, with a full complement of eighty men.
When the privateer’s crew boarded the General Monk, the decks were literally strewn with dead and wounded, and the scuppers were running blood. The grape at short range had killed fifteen and wounded twenty more, among whom was Lieutenant Churchill. All the shrouds of the foremast, and the head-sails were shot away. The foremast and bowsprit were cut one-quarter through. The halyards and standing rigging were shot adrift, and the running-gear was cut to pieces.
The Holker had lost the first lieutenant and six men killed, while ten were wounded, and much injury had been done to the sails and gear. A prize crew of fifteen were put aboard the General Monk, and ordered back to Philadelphia, taking the prisoners and valuable stores found aboard. The Holker had left, forty men effective for service, and needed her rigging overhauled before making for the Long Island rendezvous given by Barclugh. So Captain Risk thought best to put into Egg Harbor for a short time to repair his rigging and get into ship-shape for the run over to Long Island.
There seems to be a strange fatality among ships as well as among men. In the height of success is the period of gravest fear of the unexpected to occur.
The prize crew on the General Monk were busy setting up and splicing rigging and fishing the spars as the prisoners were put below when daylight stole upon the scene. The sound of the guns had borne down on the other ship of the blockade. The crew of the Holker were tricing up stays and shrouds in order to keep the Holker’s sticks from rolling out of her, when about four miles, dead astern, loomed up a heavy frigate under a cloud of canvas, making for the scene of action.
Captain Risk had to be served now by his wits rather than by his guns, for, if he took to his heels, the prize would be left to the mercy of the frigate.
Risk mounted his shrouds, trumpet in hand, and signalled his prize to run before him on a course opposite to the Holker’s while he ordered deliberately, in notes clear and strong:
“Ready, about!
“Mainsail haul!
“Raise tacks and sheets!
“Helm’s a-lee!
“’Vast bracing!”
The doughty little captain brought his ship over on the starboard tack, and stood into the wind to draw off the stranger and try his speed.
Captain Risk now had his gear well cleared up and the shrouds well set up to stand a run before the ten-knot breeze.
With sprightly bounds the crew of the Holker obeyed the commands:
“Stand by main and fore-tacks!
“Let her pay off!
“Man her weather braces!
“Haul!”
As she sheered off, the ship now staggered before the wind sooner than the Englishman could realize the tactics of the brig.
The Holker had spirited away for half a mile before the lumbering yards of the frigate could be trimmed to meet the Yankee’s course.
The chase was now on, for better or for worse. Nothing less than heroic means could save the Holker. Her main-topsail, foresail, and fore-topsail, were all set and she was laboring hard under her cargo of flour; yet if Captain Risk could hold his own until he reached Egg Harbor Inlet, he would show the frigate, Roebuck, the most devilish piece of Yankee seamanship this side of Davy Jones’ locker.
On came the Roebuck with huge wings like a monstrous demon, yawing wildly on each crest from the enormous stretch of her after-canvas, but she was surely closing the gap between the ships. In another half-hour she would be within short range of the Holker. A chance shot might bring down the privateer’s topmast, and then all would be lost.
Captain Risk stood on the port quarter with glass in hand, watching every rope and sail as he turned to his men and commanded sharply:
“Man that main-stay garnet, with a luff-tackle, bullies, and overboard cargo with a will. No time to lose, my lads.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came from twenty throats, as every man jumped to his station.
The hatches came off in a trice, and the flour came swinging out, two barrels at a heave.
“No hell-hole of a British prison for us this day,” came out from the heart of every privateersman when he swung on the cargo with might and main.
A puff of smoke now appeared out of the bow of the Roebuck, which the crew of the Holker watched with bated breath, until the eighteen-pound shot fell three hundred feet astern.
A cheer rang from the watch on the Holker’s deck.
“Now, men, heave over the six-pounders!” ordered the unruffled Risk. “Every inch of free board means our bacon saved,” continued Risk, as he stepped to the wheel and ordered the helmsman to lighter ship.
Just then another puff of white smoke curled out of the frigate’s fore bulwarks and an eighteen-pound shot came crushing through the captain’s cabin, and buried itself among the flour barrels in the hold.
“That is close shavin’,” said Risk dryly. “Unbend that long tom and we’ll try that lime-juicer’s topsail!” ordered the little captain restlessly.
Six of the lads on deck swung on the watch-tackle, and the long tom was trained astern for Captain Risk to sight a life-saving shot at the Roebuck’s rigging. The little privateersman took off his coat and hat and elevated the piece for a long shot. He took a careful squint while he signalled with either hand to haul on the side-tackles and when the mark was sure, he ordered:
“Fire!”
The gunner applied the match and the Holker quivered as the old reliable tom dealt out its rebuke to the Englishman. Captain Risk shaded his eyes with both hands as he watched for the results of his gunnery. The shot rose in parabolic beauty of flight while instants seemed moments to Captain Risk and his crew, but true to its aim the eighteen-pounder cut the enemy’s fore-topsail and yard, both of which went by the board.
“I’ll show that rapscallion that he’s not on a pleasure cruise,” chuckled the proud Risk, as he rubbed his little chubby hands and paced the quarter-deck nervously. The gleam of delight in the little skipper’s eye had no bounds, for he had saved, for a time at least, his heart’s desire, the Holker, from humiliation.
Now there was excitement on the deck of the frigate. The huge hulk yawed up into the wind as her sails came aback after the head-sail power was cut down, but the nimble jackies soon swarmed aloft and cleared away the wreckage, and the other sails were trimmed for a fresh run before the whole-sail breeze.
The Holker had not yet gained security by any means, for the captain of the Roebuck was one of those thoroughbred English sea-dogs who had earned his promotion from a middy’s berth to the command of one of the fleetest ships on the English Admiralty register. Captain Risk must earn his safety, if he were to save his ship.
Yet minutes meant precious advantage to the Holker, and while the frigate was losing headway, the brig’s crew was heaving cargo overboard and the privateer was leaping on the waves like a hound as she staggered under every stitch of canvas that she could bear. The gain on the enemy was perceptible as each inch of free board gave her life. She rose on the huge waves with more ease and labored less on each crest.
The gale had begun to increase rather than fall, so that when the frigate steadied up before it once more she had her courses all set, her main-topsail and main-topgallant sail, and the fore-topmast stay-sail to hold her head up. A mighty cheer went up as the frigate leaped into the wind again in full pursuit of the brig.
“Just give us two hours more,” said Captain Hamilton of the Roebuck to Lieutenant Nelson, “and we will have that devilish rebel under our lee,” as the British commander took a long look through his glass at the brig about five miles ahead.
“That’s well, sir, if we can catch him,” replied Lieutenant Nelson. “But he seems to be making wonderful headway and I believe those Yankees are charmed.”
“We had one, once, point-blank under our starboard battery on the Sir John, but the rascal took to his heels and ran us out of sight too quickly to tell about it. He came into the wind and shot under our stern while we expected nothing but for him to strike; and before we could bring our battery to bear, we had to wear ship, so he escaped with only a few scattering shots. Lord Ralston cut off the grog for a fortnight to get even with his chagrin and disappointment.”
Captain Risk now had one chance to evade the Roebuck. That was to lighter his cargo enough to let his ship weather the bar at Egg Harbor Inlet. The Roebuck would then be outside, pounding away in the deep water, waiting for his prey to come out.
Extending along the Atlantic Coast from Sandy Hook to the Gulf of Mexico, are numerous inlets or openings between low, sandy islands back of which is deep water and safety; but only light-draught vessels can enter these inlets. The ebb and flow of the tides keep a shallow channel open, but the heavy seas of the ocean wash the sands into a bar and the tide is not powerful enough to cut a very deep channel.
One of these sand-bars was at the entrance of Egg Harbor Inlet. A deep channel led from behind the low-lying islands, until the outflowing tide met the action of the sea-ways and there formed an eddy that deposited the sands into the bar, which was about one hundred feet wide, and on each side of which was deep water. The current was deflected to the southward, outside the bar, so that the channel was like the letter “L,” the bar being in the angle.
When steering into the inlet the pilot must approach for a considerable distance, parallel to the beach and at the critical point turn sharply to port, or else land high and dry on as ugly a beach as ever lured a mariner.
But, driven like a fox seeking cover, Captain Risk made straight for this hole at Egg Harbor Inlet. The seas were going over the bar and breaking into foam at every wave; a mile of breakers roared on each side of the thread-like channel from the deep water to the sandy beach of the islands.
The Roebuck was now hauling grandly into the chase. Thirty minutes more and the Holker would be under the batteries of a forty-four-gun ship.
“Now, lads,” remarked the little Yankee skipper, “if you heave out that cargo with a will and nary an eyebolt lets loose, I’ll put the Holker into that hole yonder or we’ll pound our lives out on the treacherous Jersey sands,” as he stepped forward and took the wheel into his own hands.
“All hands at stations!” was the last command after guns were lashed and hatches battened down.
The seas were running fearfully high from the sou’east after the all-night gale. The breakers could be seen for unlimited stretches right ahead, rolling surge upon surge. The ship followed a streak of blue water midst the white foam.
When the Holker struck the channel the ebb-tide was setting out, and, instead of driving fast ahead, the Holker seemed to hold up and simply rise and fall on the choppy seas.
The hearts of all were in their throats, for now the Roebuck loomed up and everybody saw the Englishman luff and a broadside belched forth at the struggling Holker. Down came her main-topsail, but as long as her head-sails hung out she could keep before the gale, and try to weather the bar.
The frigate was desperately near; another raking broadside might take the Holker’s foremast, and then she would be a helpless wreck at the mercy of the breakers.
But the smoke hid the Holker from the frigate for an instant, and the valiant Risk held his ship right upon the bar. As a huge surge came athwart the quarter to throw the brig upon the sands, the skipper put the wheel hard up. The ship at once broached to on the crest of a wicked sea and rolled on her beams’ ends. As the keel scraped on the bar a burly seaman grasped the wheel with the captain, and by wonderful dexterity the rudder was put hard over. The next surge saw the Holker right herself before the wind and launch safely in the still water beyond the bar.
When the Holker accomplished this daring feat of seamanship, the crew of the Roebuck were so thrilled that they let out a lusty cheer for the Yankee and bore off into the blue water to ride out the gale.
Now that the Holker was speeding in smooth water to a safe anchorage, the crew were clearing away the wreckage and admiring the little captain, who had saved them again from the horrors of an English prison.
When the Holker made the inlet at Little Egg Harbor, she came to an anchorage behind one of the low-lying islands. Her only chances for an escape were a high tide and darkness, or a fog that would let her slip out and pass the Roebuck. If a boarding party from the English frigate did not attack him, Captain Risk was preparing his ship for a chance to escape. There was much to keep his crew busy, for he had rigging to overhaul and spars to mend.
At the time Roderick Barclugh was boarding the Albatross, the Holker was waiting to escape, and little did he think that he was to run across the privateer. He gladly went to his bunk and indulged in much needed rest. All he knew was that he was to be put ashore on the New Jersey coast near Little Egg Harbor inlet, and then he must make his way to Philadelphia as best he could.
He felt that nothing ought to worry him when his mission to New York had been accomplished. Thus far no drawback had occurred. Arnold simply needed close watching and a small bait of gold now and then to keep him working. He had arranged to sell the Holker when she had delivered the flour, so that after the captain and crew were paid the prize money, they could find other adventures.
The Albatross was one of those small, armed cruisers used by General Clinton to execute raiding commissions up and down the coast. She was of light enough draft to enter small inlets, travel the sounds and bays, and assist in the guerilla warfare. She was a sloop armed with eight nine-pound carronades, and one twelve-pound swivel. The crew numbered forty men. As the orders given Captain Sutherland were to convey his passenger to a harbor on the Jersey coast, the Albatross was under way very soon, and started tacking into the sou’east gale for the Narrows and Sandy Hook.
The watch on deck was busy bringing the sloop into stays and the men off watch were sleeping soundly in their hammocks below decks. Barclugh slept well until the Narrows were passed, and the Albatross began to pound her nose into the sea-way, then he awoke and peered out of the cabin to see where this commotion came from.
Greatly refreshed, Barclugh’s mind was active and alert. Whether the change from the shore to the realm of Neptune had caused an undue influence upon his affairs, only time could tell; however, there seems to be a weak point in the affairs of all men; as though a farmer were to sell his land and buy a ship to go to sea; or as though each realm of nature had deities that rebelled upon the invasion of their particular sphere by the patrons of the others.
At all events, Barclugh felt a restlessness from the influence of the sea as he sat in the cabin and pondered upon the working of his plot. He now had time to think about Captain Risk and the Holker. He wondered where she could be and what would he do with Captain Risk, who was the sole Colonist acquainted with his dealings with Arnold. He reasoned thus:
“Captain Risk is devoted to the fickle fortunes of privateering.” (And so he was.) “After Risk’s present enterprise shall have been closed, he could take another ship and probably would be captured by a British cruiser. Thus I do not need to fear on that score.”
Neptune loves a true sailor. But when a land-lubber enters nautical enterprises to carry out plots, the old Sea-god sets his Nereides upon the novice to give him a taste of wind and wave. Only the true and tried presume to propitiate the nymphs of Father Neptune. Neither gold nor titles influences the Nereides of wind and wave. The hurricane in its mighty wrath levels the potentate to the same sphere as the peasant. When the ship sinks, both exclaim in anguish:
“Lord, have mercy upon us!”
The Albatross made but slow progress against the sou’east gale. The night of the second day she was abreast of Barnegat inlet. Before morning Little Egg Harbor inlet was reached, but since the moon did not rise clear after midnight, Captain Sutherland stood on and off until daylight. In the daytime he could make the channel and go over the bar.
Early that morning the lookout forward sang out:
“Sail, ho!”
“Where away?”
“Two points on the weather bow, sir.”
Captain Sutherland took his glass and made out a full-rigged frigate bearing down upon him. He had no fears, however, for he knew that the Roebuck was in these waters, and no cruiser of the enemy would likely be around. As the frigate bore down alongside, within close range, a voice from a trumpet out of the mizzen shrouds was heard to say:
“What ship is that and where away?”
Captain Sutherland trumpeted back:
“His Majesty’s sloop, the Albatross, bound for Little Egg Harbor inlet.”
“All’s well,” returned the frigate. “This is His Majesty’s man-of-war, Roebuck. We shall send aboard important news.” The frigate came up into the wind and lowered a boat to come aboard.
No sooner had the first trumpet-sound reached the Albatross than Barclugh was up and on deck; if he were to be captured on board an English armed sloop, his plans would miscarry. When he saw His Majesty’s cruiser he was reassured. As he paced up and down the deck, he saw the lieutenant of the frigate come aboard and go into the cabin of the Albatross.
After customary formalities, Lieutenant Nelson of the Roebuck stated his business:
“Captain Sutherland, we are blockading a Yankee privateer inside the inlet; she had captured the General Monk; we have chased her into this harbor.
“If you will attack her, we will send you a full complement of men. We will send the boats and you can take her by boarding.
“She can not manœuvre inside the harbor, and she is crippled. Her forward battery is gone, and she is short of crew.”
“It’s well, Lieutenant Nelson, I shall obey Captain Atherton’s orders,” replied Captain Sutherland, and then he remarked quizzically: “Shall we appease the sea-nymphs, Lieutenant?”
“Certainly, certainly,” returned Nelson, when he observed Captain Sutherland go to the locker and take out a decanter of Madeira and two long glasses.
“Got your eye?” proposed Sutherland, as the two raised their glasses, and took a long pull at the “Milk of Venus” for the sake of good comradeship.
During the day not a word could Barclugh ask about the business of the two ships, for his security depended upon his own counsel being kept; but at daylight the next morning, there was no more question in his mind.
Lying at anchor behind the island was a crippled brig with main-topmast gone. The frigate was lying a mile on the weather bow, and all was activity on her decks. Three boats’ crews were boarding the small boats; he saw them strike out for the Albatross. The wind had now settled to a steady breeze from the south.
Lieutenant Nelson was in command of the boats’ crews from the frigate, and as they came alongside, sixty brawny men, armed to the teeth, mounted the deck of the sloop. With the boats in tow, the Albatross now made over the bar toward the Holker.
When the Holker escaped the Roebuck and weathered the bar, Captain Risk commenced at once to replace the injured topmast, and get his sails repaired so that he could slip out in the dark of night, and show his heels to the frigate. But when Risk saw the armed sloop make the inlet with the three boats in tow, he knew what was ahead for his crew; therefore, he called them all on deck and pointing to the sloop, said:
“Men, there come those lime-juicers to take this brig. They outnumber us two to one. Shall we make them pay for their pains?”
“Ay, ay,” came from every throat, and the boatswain stepped forward and said:
“Captain, wherever you lead us we will go.”
Captain Risk was now on his mettle. His ship was crippled; his main-topmast was gone, he had thrown overboard his six-pounders, and he was short his two lieutenants; his prize crew was on the General Monk, and the killed and wounded in the engagement depleted his numbers; however, he was determined that if he were compelled to strike to the enemy he would make them pay two for one.
Mounting the quarter-deck, he first ordered a spring-line on his kedge to windward, his bower anchor to leeward so that he could spring his stern in a semicircle and bring his battery of twelve-pounders to bear, no matter from what point the enemy approached.
Next he ordered the boarding-nets in place, loaded all the muskets and pistols, and placed everything handy for fighting close aboard. Cutlasses and pikes were made ready and the deck was sanded. The battery was double-shotted with grape for close execution.
The Albatross came up with a fair breeze from the south’ard as though they were on a pleasure excursion. When the sloop drew up into the inlet, Barclugh got the glass from Captain Sutherland and critically examined the lines and rig of the Holker.
He then began to think. The whole matter came before his view. The Holker could be taken. The crew and Captain Risk could be confined until his plot was carried through. Yet he did not wish any harm to come to Risk during the fight.
When Barclugh returned the spying-glass to Captain Sutherland, he remarked earnestly:
“Captain Sutherland, I see that fellow is getting ready to give us a warm reception, and may I have the honor of leading one of your boats’ crews against him?”
“No, sir,” replied the captain imperatively. “I have strict orders to land you safely on the Jersey shore in Little Egg River, and I can not take any risks. You better repair at once to your cabin, and remain there during the engagement, sir,” continued the captain, as he turned to order his men. Barclugh could say nothing to these orders, and he went below to mingle with the crew of the frigate.
Among the men he noticed a good-natured looking fellow; going up to him, he said in an undertone:
“I want to speak to you, my good man. Kindly come to my cabin.”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the man-o’-war’s man, as he ambled along with Barclugh.
When they reached his cabin, Barclugh said:
“For certain private reasons, I desire to go aboard that brig when she is taken. Here are five guineas, my man, if you exchange your uniform for my suit. You remain closely in my cabin and keep the door fastened until I return. Give me your name and station and I will take your place in the boarding party.”
“My name is William Atkinson, hand as hit’s to obleege a gentleman I’m willin’. We ’ave more’n this business than a poor man’s pay allows. Hi belongs to boat’s crew number one,” replied the sailor as he hitched up his trousers and put the guineas in a bag around his neck.
When Barclugh had changed his garb, Atkinson looked at him and remarked:
“Keep in the dark and go along with the rest. Hin the hexcitement you will not be knownst. Howsomever, you better get a little grease to blacken ’em hup a little.”
Barclugh took his place among the armed men below, and kept in the dark corners until the command was passed to man cutter number one.
As the sloop boomed up with a spanking breeze, every available space was occupied by the one hundred armed men on her decks, so that they looked like black birds. Captain Risk did not intend to remain idle while this array was coming on. Instead, he trained his long eighteen-pound pivot, and opened the fracas by giving the Englishman a good shot between wind and water.
The sloop then manned the cutters and while they were advancing on the brig, the sloop luffed up and delivered a broadside at long range, but most of the shot fell short.
However, four boats’ crews, three from the frigate and one from the sloop, advanced on the Holker with loud cheers. Barclugh took his place unnoticed; the frigate’s men thought a man from the sloop had gotten into their crew by mistake. The spy was intent on gaining the deck of the Holker so that he might protect Risk if possible.
As the four boats’ crews came up to the Holker’s bow within close range, Captain Risk swung off on the kedge-spring line, and brought his broadside up to the boats and a sheet of flame burst out of the Holker’s side. A score of men lay prostrate on the bottom of the boats. Barclugh escaped.
The boats opened up a hot fire and took different courses,—one to the forward chains,—one on each quarter, and one astern.
The boat’s crew astern cut the spring-line on the kedge, but that only let the Holker drift with the wind.
Now commenced the fight with small arms, when the cannon could not bear. The crew of the Holker stationed themselves on the forecastle and on the quarter-deck.
A rush was made by the attacking party at the forward chains, but every time a head showed itself above the bulwarks, it was met with a cutlass or marlin-spike.
Two different rushes were made by the British at the stern, but each attack was repulsed, and after forty minutes of ineffectual work the English boats retired amidst loud cheers from the Holker’s crew.
The English lost fifteen killed and twenty wounded. They went back to the sloop severely crippled,—so much so, in fact, that signals were at once made to the Roebuck, and two boat-loads of crippled and dead sent off to the frigate.
That evening Captain Risk saw four boat-loads come back from the frigate to the sloop. He knew that he was to have a night attack from more men than before, and he had lost six men in the fight that day. His force was now reduced to thirty-four men.
Risk prepared for an emergency by placing his long tom amidships so that if the enemy gained the deck forward or aft, he could turn them a point-blank charge of grape, and, with a rally of his men, drive them overboard.
As Captain Risk expected, however, at midnight he could see six boat-loads approaching in the moonlight. He stationed his men, and they knew that before Captain Risk would strike to the enemy he would apply a match to the magazine, so every man determined to die at his station.
As soon as the enemy’s boats were distinguishable in their dim outlines, a rapid discharge of the twelve-pounders and the muskets began. The English separated and dashed forward. The plan was well executed, since almost at once the six boats came alongside at different points.
Fighting like demons, the crews of the boats were determined to avenge the day’s repulse and gain the deck. The English were driven back amidships and astern where Captain Risk led his men; but in the forward chains the English were in such numbers that they clambered up so fast that the Yankees were driven back.
Captain Risk engaged two seamen, cutlass in one hand
and pistol in the other.
When Captain Risk saw the English gathering for a rush from the forecastle, he grabbed a match and turning the long tom forward, he applied the fire. He then called his men to his side to drive the English back into their boats.
But the English had too many. When the long tom dealt its carnage, enough remained to rush upon Risk and his little band, where a hand-to-hand encounter ensued.
Rushing at the head of his men into the fight, Captain Risk engaged two seamen, and with cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other, he shot one through the shoulder and sent the other reeling to the deck with a cutlass stroke on his head. Being now pressed on all sides, Risk rushed with a match to the companion-way to throw it into the magazine; but he was shot in the forehead and killed before he could accomplish his object. The Americans, now officerless, were forced upon the quarter-deck; the crew was overpowered from all sides, and the colors hauled down by the enemy. But the victory was dearly bought by the English. In this last encounter twenty Englishmen were killed and thirty-two wounded.
Among those that were wounded was Barclugh. When Captain Risk rushed upon the two seamen that were advancing upon him, the one that he shot in the shoulder was Barclugh. Faint with the loss of blood, and stunned by the shock, Barclugh crawled very humbly back into his boat, and sat there until he was carried to the sloop. He was not fatally hurt, but his arm pained him severely.
When the sloop was reached, Barclugh got aboard without the assistance of his mates, but, once below, he crawled to his cabin door. He found William Atkinson soundly asleep, snoring like a porpoise blowing. When he awoke the man-o’-war’s man, Atkinson exclaimed:
“Lor’ bless me, sir, you’re shot! I was dreamin’ how’s somethin’ was happenin’ to you, sir. So let me ’elp you to bed and get you some water or brandy. Here, let me get on my own clothes, as I am sure to be blamed for these ’appenin’s.
“That’s it,—off with the blouse and trousers. I’m into them in a jiffy. You’ll be better now, as you lie down a bit.”
“Atkinson,” requested Barclugh feebly, “you will find some brandy in the locker there,—give me a little.”
“Ah, yes, sir. I was trying a wee bit in your absence, sir. It’s werry good.
“Here you are,” continued the jacky. “Take that. Now lie down sir, and I’ll go and notify the captain, sir. But before I go, sir, I wants to leave these guineas with you. For, as you ’ad the trouble to get shot in my place, I can’t take your money.” But when Atkinson looked at Barclugh, he saw that he was unconscious, so, putting the money under the pillow, he hastened on deck.
There every one was busy. Groans, curses, the dead laid out in rows on the forecastle deck,—the wounded placed aboard the Roebuck’s boats,—commands for cutters’ crews to man their boats, confronted Atkinson on every hand. When his ensign ordered the crew of Atkinson’s cutter to give way on the oars, he was at his station, and poor Barclugh was left unattended in his cabin.
Every circumstance now turned against Barclugh and his plans.
Captain Risk was killed, but he had inflicted a serious wound in the heat of battle, upon the plotter of the scheme. Thus the fate of a nation was in the balance.
The representative of British gold received pay for his pains when he was heartlessly left by the seaman in his cabin. When he aroused from his spell of unconsciousness, in a dazed condition, he looked around and found himself quite alone. After a short period of reflection, he remembered the capture of the Holker, the encounter with Risk and the death of the intrepid little captain as he attempted to blow up his ship and all on board.
“My God!” muttered Barclugh to himself. “Ever since I came aboard this craft, the fates seem to have worried me and to have been set against my enterprise. Zounds! I had tried to be of some service to Risk, but he has put me in my present predicament.
“Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me! Oh, that shoulder is done for! I cannot raise my left arm. I better try and call for some assistance.”
When Barclugh tried to raise himself, the loss of blood made his head light, and everything seemed to grow dark when he raised himself. He lay back in his berth, consoling himself by exclaiming:
“I had better remain where I am, and thank God that I am not worse off!”
Barclugh lay quietly in his berth for hours,—in fact until the morning after the fight. Captain Sutherland had thought of Barclugh as fast asleep, little thinking that his passenger would disobey orders. However, when Captain Sutherland had left a crew aboard the Holker to fit her out and take her to New York, he began to look after his passenger. Not finding him astir and nobody having seen him for twenty-four hours, he went to Barclugh’s stateroom and rapped on the door.
A voice within responded feebly:
“Come in.”
As the captain entered, he exclaimed:
“What’s the matter, Mr. Gustavus?”
“Well, Captain, I disobeyed your orders. I could not resist going to that ship and fighting for the King; but here I am with my shoulder shot to pieces.”
“I am very sorry, Mr. Gustavus,” replied Captain Sutherland. “Are you hurt very badly? I will send the ship’s surgeon to you.”
The surgeon came and dressed the wound and set the collar-bone, that had been broken. He put Barclugh under strict orders that he must not move out of bed for two or three days.
These three days were like sackcloth and ashes to Barclugh. He was feverish to get to Philadelphia, but the wound chastened his soul. He grew sick at heart, when he lay bandaged up, and the words of Mollie Greydon rang in his ears:
He tossed restlessly, smarting under the pangs of a contrite heart, and muttered to himself again and again:
“If I only had half of the simplicity and happiness of the new settler, Benjamin Andrews, all the drafts on the Bank of Amsterdam that I have on my person would be freely given. If my life were linked with a pure and lofty spirit like Mollie Greydon, and living on some lovely estate like Dorminghurst, how free from all of this turmoil and strife my life would be! No war!! No great need of money!!! No jealousy!!!! Just living serenely for the happiness of those around me and for the glory of my Creator!”
If the sublime presence of a sweet and tender woman had been able to minister to Barclugh at this crisis of his soul, the better nature within him would have triumphed over his sordidness, and he would have given up to the better dictates of his conscience. However, he fell into a deep slumber, and when he awoke his body had become rested and refreshed. Stern ambition was uppermost in his mind again, and he began to plan to get back to Philadelphia.
The next day Barclugh commenced to recover from the shock of his wound; he chafed under the restraint that he was in; then he sent for Captain Sutherland. As soon as Captain Sutherland entered the cabin where the spy was sitting in an arm-chair, having his arm in a sling, he spoke cautiously:
“Good morning, Captain Sutherland. I am behind on my calculations two days already, and I am very desirous of returning to Philadelphia.”
“How do you propose to return, sir?” quizzed the captain.
“I have resolved on two possible means,” answered Barclugh. “One is to engage a passage on a fishing sloop; the other to go overland.
“I used to be acquainted with a Swedish fisherman who sold oysters in that city. He had two sloops that plied to this inlet. If I could be fortunate enough to find him, I could return most comfortably.
“Then I could be taken up Little Egg River as far as a small boat could go and thereafter depend on my own wits to reach Philadelphia overland. I prefer the water route in a sloop.
“Put me ashore at some fisherman’s hut and I will take care of myself,” concluded Barclugh.
“Do you think that you are well enough to make the journey?” asked the captain.
“I shall be as well off as I am waiting here,” continued Barclugh.
“If you will give me two trusty men in a boat to land me at the mouth of Little Egg Harbor River, I shall stop with the first fisherman that I can find. I can buy his boat, if necessary, to take me on my journey. A few guineas will look big in his eyes,” argued Barclugh.
“Very well, Mr. Gustavus, I shall undertake to land you whenever you are ready,” stated Captain Sutherland, as he arose to leave.
“I shall be ready at sunrise,” replied Barclugh, whereupon the captain left the cabin for the deck.
Barclugh had been landed, as agreed, by the crew of the Albatross at the mouth of the Little Egg River, and had made his way to the hut of a Swedish fisherman; not a soul had seen whence he came.
The fisherman’s hut was small, having been built out of the logs that were found on the beach and which had drifted from some lumberman’s raft of distant Maine or New Hampshire; yea, some claimed greater distinction. An experienced eye could distinguish the mahogany log that had floated from the West Indies with the Gulf Stream, and had been blown on the Jersey sands by a nor’east or sou’east gale. These logs were all smoothly hewn and chinked with a mortar made from the lime of the oyster shell and the sands cast up by the waves.
The house sat on the shelving bank of the river, surrounded by ragged nets, tar-smeared cauldrons, floats and spars. A rather young woman stood in the doorway, while two children with bare feet played about and a yellow dog barked vociferously at the stranger’s approach.
The children ran to the protection of their mother’s skirt when they saw the man come near. Two calves stopped their pranks to gaze at the new-comer. Loneliness stuck out from every corner of the habitation, and stolid contentment was evident in every pore of the buxom young Swedish mother.
Barclugh was at his wit’s ends when he strode up to the doorway, after side-stepping a few times to escape the charges of the dog. The woman stamped her foot and ordered the dog off, in a language foreign to Barclugh’s comprehension.
Bowing in his most gracious manner and holding his hat in his one free hand, Barclugh said graciously:
“Good morning, Madam. Is your husband at home?”
No answer, except a dubious shake of the head, accompanied by a most pleasant smile. She walked into the one room of the house, and offered Barclugh a chair when she had a good look at his crippled arm and bandaged shoulder.
Everything about the fisherman’s home was plain, yet scrupulously clean. The floor was glistening with the purest of sand. The large fireplace took up nearly the whole end of the house. A kettle, a skillet, and a three-legged, shallow pot sat on the hearth. A broad table was on one side, which had been scoured with sand and soft soap until the knots alone showed what character the wood once had.
Without any ceremony, the good wife began to prepare a meal. First she put a pot on with fresh water, then went out to the river bank where her husband kept lobsters and crabs in a small trap. By using a small dipping-net, she brought out a large lobster and a half a dozen crabs.
These were hurried into the steaming kettle, and there sat Barclugh watching his meal cook, while he became acquainted with the children by making grimaces at them.
Barclugh ate his sea food, potatoes, and coarse bread with much relish. He offered the good housewife a piece of silver, but she only shook her head in the negative.
The day wore on and Barclugh sat on the river bank, watching the children build houses in the sand, and the dog pant in the broiling sun. He knew that the fisherman must come home, and then he would find some one with whom he could converse. However, a foreign-tongued woman and guileless children suited his purpose, for the less that he had to talk the better for him.
The sun was setting over the broad expanse of sea-marsh, when a well-rigged fishing sloop drew into the river’s mouth and landed at the fisherman’s hut. Two gnarly Swedes and a lad jumped ashore. The older one was the husband of the young woman, evidently, for she went to the landing and in a few words explained to him the presence of the stranger.
The Swede approached Barclugh, who noticed that the fisherman’s face was much weather-beaten, his beard shaggy and unkempt.
“Meester, you have been shot?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Barclugh anxiously. “I am wounded and came near being captured by those English ships of war. I want to go to Philadelphia.”
“Vaal, I go to Pheeladelpheea with my feesh right avay. Eef you——”
“I’ll give you two guineas to take me there, and two guineas more to keep silent, and let no one know where I came from,” nervously added Barclugh.
“Aal right, I say nothing. I geeve you goot passage.”
Barclugh then handed him four guineas. The Swede smiled and went into the house, where he gave the gold to his wife, and got his bag of clean clothes.
There were no delays in the Swede’s movements. He jumped on board the sloop with the other Swede and left the lad to stay with the family.
The sloop was well loaded amidships. An assorted cargo of crabs, lobsters, bluefish, flounder, and mackerel were all packed in ice, and covered over with moss. Hatches were fastened athwart-ship and bulkheads protected the cuddy and the cockpit from the cargo of sea food.
The cuddy was forward of the mast, and a square hatchway let the crew below to the bunks, which were on each side of the keel between the stem and the bulkhead.
The cockpit had seats all around it in the shape of a half-circle. A barrel of fresh water rested on the keel under the seat next to the after bulkhead; little drawers were arranged under the seats where dishes and food were stored; a small charcoal stove was used to furnish heat in cold weather and to cook the meals.
Barclugh was taken aboard and informed that he could bunk in the cuddy until morning. Then the fishermen hoisted sail and cast off the moorings. He gladly accepted the offer, for he had been well fed by the Swede’s wife, and what he most needed was rest.
A long bag full of marsh grass was in the bunk to lie upon, and a dunnage bag made his pillow. The cuddy was as neat and clean as one could expect aboard a fisherman’s craft. When the water went swishing by on the sloop’s planking, Barclugh fell into a sound sleep.
The two Swedes were brothers. One was married, and the other was his partner in the fishing trade. The lad was a nephew that had come from Sweden to live with his uncles. They plied their occupation between Little Egg Harbor inlet and Philadelphia, and sold their catch to Sven Svenson. In the summer season they took out enough ice each trip to keep their fish until their return, and when Barclugh boarded their sloop they were in a hurry to get to Philadelphia in the shortest time possible.
The wind was light when the sun went down, but with the rising of the moon the wind freshened and carried them down the coast at eight knots an hour.
Nothing disturbed the serenity of the trip. When everything was sailing smoothly, the older one crawled into the cuddy and occupied the bunk opposite Barclugh. He slept soundly until after midnight, when he relieved his brother and let him turn in.
At sunrise Barclugh arose and after freshening up with a good wash, he looked around to see where they were. He saw the sloop heading northwest, and a low-lying point of land astern.
“Where are we now?” he asked, as he took a good long breath of fresh air.
“Wee aare finfe hoors sail fram Pheeladalpheea, Meester,” was the reply of the Swede at the tiller.
The younger one was busy at the cooking of the morning meal. Barclugh discouraged talk and the Swedes knew what they had been given the guineas for.
The British spy took a seat forward and began to swell with exultation when he pondered over his journey to New York, his interview with General Clinton, and his participation in the capture of the Holker. Now he was speeding to the conclusion of his journey,—the sloop skimmed over the rolling waves of the Atlantic, as his enthusiasm grew apace, and he thought of the subjugation of West Point by intrigue.
When the sloop reached the fishmonger’s landing in Philadelphia and Barclugh stepped ashore, he walked unnoticed to his lodgings and inwardly exclaimed:
“Victory! Victory!”
No sooner was Barclugh settled in his lodgings, than he began to resume his business duties.
“Mr. Hopewell,” he ordered, calling his clerk from the accounting room to his private office, “go, and inform General Arnold that Mr. Barclugh has arrived and that he wishes to see him at five o’clock in his private office.
“Inform any personage of importance that I had a fall from my horse and broke my collar-bone; be careful to whom you impart this information.”
“Very well, sir,” replied the faithful clerk, as he bowed himself out of the stern-visaged presence.
With his going, Barclugh threw himself upon his couch, and rested his weary body. The twenty days of exploit had been most eventful and full of activities. Now that he had performed his mission to New York, Arnold’s part alone had to be carried out and the plot would be executed.
Weariness overcame Barclugh, and he slept soundly until he heard a knock on his door.
Starting up with a dazed memory, he arose and found Mr. Hopewell at the door, who informed him that General Arnold was in the outside office, waiting to see him by appointment.
“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Very well! I’ll see General Arnold in a very few minutes,” said Barclugh, reflecting for an instant.
Barclugh hurriedly washed and dressed and as he passed through the accounting room, he quietly said to his clerk:
“You may go now, Mr. Hopewell.”
When the door opened upon General Arnold he arose nervously, and, as he beheld Barclugh with his arm in a sling, he rushed forward and seized Barclugh’s right hand in both of his, exclaiming:
“Why, how do you do, Mr. Barclugh? I hope that you are not seriously injured? What,—what hurt you?”
“This is nothing serious,” replied Barclugh, as he languidly took a seat. His wan and weather-beaten face had placed ten years upon his shoulders.
The two conspirators sat down and for an instant each gazed at the other to learn if there were any sign of the white feather. To the steady gaze of Barclugh’s steely blue eyes, Arnold returned their inquisitive glance with a set jaw and a determined look that could not be mistaken for backsliding.
“How have you made out?” inquired Arnold hesitatingly.
“All right,” replied Barclugh firmly. “I saw Washington; I saw Clinton; I saw Risk killed.”
“Good enough for that little pudgy piece of conceit. He thought that he could whip all Christendom with that Holker and fifty men. So he’s killed! How did that happen?”
Barclugh briefly related the whole journey,—the capture of the General Monk, and the loss of the Holker.
When it came to the capture of the Holker, General Arnold became very much interested, for his profits were in the cargo. He asked:
“Well, Mr. Barclugh, shall I receive anything out of this Holker business now?”
“Oh, we have sold the ship and cargo to the English for whom it was intended, and the telltale crew is disposed of. I will guarantee your share. You need not worry about that. All that you need to do now is to secure the command of West Point. We will carry out the money part of the agreement.”
“Very good, Mr. Barclugh,” continued Arnold, “but you see I am suffering for money; my debts of five thousand pounds sterling are driving me to destruction, and I wish that you could advance me some to-day.”
Barclugh now saw his opportunity to crush the independence of Arnold. At this pitiable appeal for money, he arose with fist clenched, and struck the table as he spoke:
“General Arnold, I have advanced you $3000! I have undertaken the Holker enterprise for your benefit! I have arranged to secure you twenty thousand pounds for the delivery of West Point! I have even secured for you the assurance of a General’s commission in His Majesty’s service, and all that has been asked of you is to deliver West Point! Now you ask me to advance more of His Majesty’s funds? No, sir, not until you have done more of your part. You must secure West Point!”
The man who had suffered the privations and starvation of an expedition at the head of a half-clad army to capture Quebec in mid-winter, and never lost heart, now quailed before this ostentation of money. He hung his head and in half-choking tones he arose and said:
“I have written to General Washington, and I may hear from him very soon. I do hope that you can help me.”
As Arnold finished the last sentence, he walked out of the rooms of Roderick Barclugh with the most forlorn expression. His chin was resting on his breast as he walked to his home, there, maybe, to receive another imperious demand for money.
“General Arnold, I can not and shall not be subjected to these miserable indignities any longer,” exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, as she hysterically left her husband at the breakfast table and went to her bed-chamber.
On the day after Barclugh had arrived in Philadelphia, the Commander of the town had been presented with the demands for the servants’ wages, bills for two gowns, and pay for the oysters and fish from Sven Svenson, by his wife at breakfast, and his reply was:
“My dear, I have no money to-day.”
Arnold was brave in the midst of battle, but in the presence of an imperious and unreasoning wife he was an abject coward. A look from his wife was a command to Arnold, and he allowed his domestic expenses to ruin him and drive him into desperation, because he did not dare to curb within his means an unreasonably extravagant woman.
After Mrs. Arnold, in a fit of temper, had left her husband, Arnold arose in dismay, then sat down dejectedly in his chair. His brow was wrinkled; his eyes wore an expression of the fox, driven to bay; his frame shook with anguish; his hands clenched his hair; and he sought relief mentally, by reasoning out his situation to himself:
“My love for my wife causeth me to do foolish things, but I can not deny her anything that pleases her. Her very look is a command to me. When we married I thought our position demanded a country-seat, and I bought it. When she asked for a carriage and postilion, I furnished them. When she wished to dine her friends of the Tory party, I consented.
“But where has it led me at length? I am a Major-General of the Continentals, and living like a prince. Been married two years and five thousand pounds in debt. Oh, that I could end these pangs of pride! Yes, I shall end them. I shall again see Roderick Barclugh. I shall write again to General Washington and demand my assignment to West Point,” concluded Arnold as he arose and went to his wife’s chamber. He tried to enter but the door was fastened.
An angry voice from within asked:
“Who’s that?”
“Margaret, my dear, may I speak to you?” meekly replied Arnold.
“I shall not have any explanation, General Arnold,” savagely replied his wife; but she opened the door and imperiously walked to the other side of the room, where she stood with her back to him.
“My dear,” began Arnold, “I find that,——”
“Yes, you’ll find that I and my child will leave this house and you will find——” interjected Mrs. Arnold.
“If you will let me explain?” continued Arnold.
“I sha’n’t allow you to explain to me any more. You have done nothing but explain ever since you met me.
“What shall become of me and my child, if things do not improve?” continued Mrs. Arnold as she began sobbing.
“I know that you will be ordered off to active service and then you will be killed and what shall become of me? There will be nothing left for me to survive upon under this government.”
“Never mind, my dear, I shall try and get West Point. Then our fortunes will soon change. We will not have all of the expenses of living in the city; we can then pay off our debts. Besides I have some commercial ventures that I expect to bring in some returns very soon. I know how you must feel when you see how much money the FitzMaurices and the Millings and the Redmans have and we do not have anything but my meagre pay to live upon.
“But remember, my dearest, I shall do all in my power to make you happy,—even to giving up my life. Oh! Margaret, bear up a little longer and I shall be able to gratify every desire that you may have. You know how much I love you, and how happy we have been with our boy!”
Quickly turning toward her husband, the beautiful and young Mrs. Arnold put her face poutingly up to his to be kissed, as she said:
“Benedict, I know that you love me, and I am afraid that you love me more than I deserve.”
The Arnold household had to contend with two conditions that are sure to disrupt the tranquility of a home. One was the imperious, unreasoning ambition of the wife to shine socially, and the other was the recognition, by the husband, that his own social position was not equal to the position that his wife was entitled to hold by reason of education, family and environment.
Arnold had won fame in a few years on account of his brilliant and daring military exploits, but his reckless and obstinate nature had brought him into disrepute. He lacked finesse and diplomacy. His home and social surroundings demanded wisdom that he did not possess.
He had been an apothecary, a horse trader, and a sea captain. His enterprise in business had been of the adventurous order. He had rubbed against the hoi polloi of Colonial times. He was at home in a country dance among French Canadians on his journeys to trade Yankee notions for ponies, but when he entered the ultra-aristocratic circles of Philadelphia as the military commandant, he soon succumbed to the wiles of the beautiful women and the luxury of gay living; his head soon swam with the fantastic notions of a new and gilded life.
He was an unsophisticated Adam, partaking of the sweets of life with no preparation of the appetite. His ardent nature was not tempered with the prudence of experience. He glutted himself like the gamin who enters a pie contest. The wine was red and he desired to indulge himself in its flavor. No consequences appealed to him in his mad intoxication; he had no wisdom; his gentility was crude. Although he was bold, he was reduced by circumstances to a parasite; he even surrendered his political principles to those of his wife and her friends.
When these two social forces had met and were joined in matrimony, an abject imitation was made of the husband, and a tyrannical boaster of the wife.
Leaving his wife’s chamber, Arnold went to the office of Roderick Barclugh.
He was smarting under the findings of the court-martial at Morristown, and under the monetary demands of a gay and ambitious wife. He had proposed to resign his commission in the army and settle upon an estate in the wilds of Western New York, and let history right the wrongs that had been heaped upon him, but the ambition of his wife intervened again. Her love of social distinction would not allow her to consent to a home in the wilderness. What a glorious record of heroism was thus turned into the wormwood of infamy!
Desperation was written on his face when Arnold reached the office of Roderick Barclugh, who shook the General’s hand, saying:
“I hope, General Arnold, that you do not think seriously of my heated discourse toward you yesterday, for I was weary and suffering from my wound. I was then ill-humored and out of patience. Anything that I can do to relieve your financial difficulties, you may command of me.”
This unexpected liberality on the part of Barclugh now won the heart of Arnold. The ointment for a wounded spirit was in these words.
Arnold sat down and smiled as he rubbed his hands and began to relate confidingly to Barclugh:
“Mr. Barclugh, my life, thus far, has been full of hardship and bitterness. My honors have been won with a heart true to my country; no stigma yet rests upon my name; but my motives have been misjudged and maligned; the designs and calumny of wicked rivals have filled my life with despair.
“Then, my enemies have attacked the idol of my soul,—my wife and the mother of my child. Enough to arouse the bitterness of my being were the attacks upon my own actions, but when the opinions of my wife and her friends have to be scored and laid up against me I am driven to seek satisfaction.
“The one burden of my soul that bears me down to the depths of desperation, however, is that of my debts. I have always been used to having plenty for my simple needs, but the war has impoverished me, and I can not get my just dues from Congress. I owe the butcher, the baker and the footman. My wife’s social ambition I am not able to curtail. I am in the depths of embarrassment over my debts.
“If it were not for what I owe I could not consent to treason to extricate myself; but I am too deeply involved. Indeed, too deeply!” concluded Arnold as his voice choked, and huge tears trickled down his cheeks.
Not a word passed the lips of these men of iron for a period that seemed oppressively long.
At length Barclugh broke the silence, remarking compassionately:
“My dear General Arnold, your life has been worried to distraction by men of small and ungenerous natures. They have sought to elevate themselves by your undoing; but what must you expect from a government such as you have in these Colonies? There is no authority, no responsible head. You, in your case, have no appeal from a backbiting set of adventurers.
“But in government at home such services as you have rendered have the reward of a peerage and a grant from Parliament for the benefit of your family.
“There is no use talking further, you can serve your countrymen far more, by trying to put an end to these injustices, perpetrated by an irresponsible rabble upon personages of substance, than by trying to win independence,—for what?—A worse government, perhaps, than the one you have had as Colonists.”
“In any event, the Commissioners of His Majesty are willing to grant all the demands that the Colonists have asked for.
“Now, General Arnold, you will pardon me, but if I were to put two thousand pounds sterling to your credit, as a loan, and leave it here for your convenience, would that be of any service to you?”
“My dear Mr. Barclugh,” replied Arnold most graciously, “you have befriended me generously—I am in need of friends.
“I shall not forget your kindness, but may I ask you to let me have five hundred pounds to-day?”
“Certainly, certainly,” returned Barclugh, and he counted him out the amount in Bank of England notes.
“But there is only one matter I wish to impress upon you, General Arnold, before you go,” continued Barclugh, as he arose and took Arnold by the hand. “I hope that you will press the matter about West Point with General Washington, and let me know at the very first moment what news you get. I know that General Washington desires to befriend you.”
“Of course, Mr. Barclugh, I will keep you posted. I expect news any day; still there is a feeling within me that Washington is under the influence of my enemies. He does not show the cordiality to me now, that he used to.
“But never mind, I shall be able to give them all a lesson in the manner of treating a gentleman, when the war is over.”
“Good day, Mr. Barclugh, I am more than grateful.”
“Come down at any time, General. We shall arrange all details when you hear from headquarters.
“Good day,” concluded Roderick Barclugh.
“Segwuna, where have you been, my dear? I have missed you so much,” were the words of Mollie Greydon, when she saw Segwuna for the first time in two weeks. Segwuna was in the winding path leading to the old mill on the Wingohocking at Dorminghurst.
Segwuna turned around at the sound of Mollie’s voice, and walking toward her, put an arm around the waist of her friend and replied:
“I have been to New York selling some moccasins and leggings,” for she did not desire to let Mollie know the whole of her reasons for going to New York.
Segwuna continued spiritedly:
“While there I saw General Clinton and Major Andre. They live in such grand style,—a coach and postilion, just like General Arnold.
“Those grand people have no love for an Indian girl like me.”
“Oh, never mind, my sweetheart! I love you,” retorted Mollie sweetly, as she embraced her friend and kissed her on the cheek.
“Oh, let’s go down to the mill, Segwuna,” continued Mollie. “We can sit down and relieve our hearts to each other.”
Mollie had been much agitated ever since Mr. Barclugh’s visit to Dorminghurst. She had been affected by the very peculiar and earnest look in his eyes at the breakfast table. She had seen neither Barclugh nor Segwuna since then, and her delicate nature had dwelt upon the tender gaze in Barclugh’s eyes and thoughts of what it might mean had haunted her by day and by night. If she could have told Segwuna, she would have found relief, but Segwuna had left the same day that Mr. Barclugh had gone to New York.
The two life-long friends, with arms around each other’s waists, now sauntered down to a lonely spot around the old mill to tell of their fears and their hearts’ desires. Mollie believed that Segwuna had wisdom, so that the Indian maiden was the oracle that Mollie consulted when she had burdens on her mind.
These two childlike natures had that implicit confidence in each other that is born of God. They sat on the mill-race, under the shade of a huge elm. As Mollie buried her head in Segwuna’s bosom, the fountains of pent-up grief broke out and Mollie wept and wept until Segwuna pacified her by stroking her brow and sweetly asking:
“What is the matter, my loved one? Has Segwuna offended you, sweetheart? What makes my love so unhappy?”
“Oh, Segwuna, I thought that you had been lost or killed or that something terrible had happened to you. You never stayed away so long before. I have been looking for you every day, and you did not return.
“Now that you have returned and you have not changed,—you still love me?—I cry for joy. But then, Segwuna, I have a secret to tell you, and you must not laugh at me, for then I shall think that you do not love me.
“Do you know,” continued Mollie, “that the day that Mr. Barclugh was here, and we were talking at breakfast about the King’s courtiers, I happened to repeat those lines of Shakespeare:
‘Had I but served my God with half the zeal
‘I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age
‘Have left me naked to mine enemies.’
“When I had finished these lines, the eyes of Mr. Barclugh gazed at me, and such a light shone out of them, I have not been able to rid myself of the look that he gave me.
“Segwuna, what does it mean? I am troubled by day in my thought and by night in my dreams.
“I could not find you, my darling, to let you know what troubled me. I have been unhappy every minute since then.”
“Well, my sweetheart,” replied Segwuna, “I shall pray to the Great Spirit to protect you from harm; but there can be only one interpretation of what you have told me,—it means that Mr. Barclugh is in love with you.”
A thunderstorm had arisen from the southwest, while the two girls were occupied in their heart to heart communion, and the two ran into the old mill for protection. The terrific wind and downpour of rain shook the old mill. When the sharp bolts of lightning and the heavy crash of thunder seemed very near, Mollie clutched Segwuna by the arm, and hung to her spasmodically, as fear seemed to multiply in her already much agitated breast.
When Segwuna turned at last to leave for her mother’s lodge, she kissed Mollie on the cheek, and whispered gently:
“Segwuna will pray to her Great Spirit to protect her sweetheart from all harm. Good night, darling.”
Barclugh took his meals regularly at the Boar’s Head Tavern, and lived industriously attending to his plot, and to his speculations in privateering.
He was busy organizing his bank, the capital of which was mostly subscribed and whose charter was drawn and placed before the Council of Pennsylvania for legal authority to do business. The corporation was to be known as the Bank of North America; Thomas Milling was to be its first President. Every detail was copied as closely after the corporation of the Bank of England as possible; that was Barclugh’s plan.
If Barclugh had confined himself to his plot with Arnold and to his plans in financiering, he would have been better off. But the allurements of commerce had also attracted his attention.
Ships of all descriptions were in the stream, awaiting a berth to load or unload. Some were at the wharves of Milling & FitzMaurice, loading or unloading merchandise and munitions of war. Privateers and merchantmen, brigs and barques, full-rigged ships and sloops,—all were a kaleidoscope of the cosmopolitan elements of Philadelphia. The Malay, the Portuguese, the Negro, the Indian, the Caucasian, the Creole, were all bartering and seeking adventure on the seas. They were in a harbor where war now offered all of the prizes and all of the calamities of life. The calamities claimed the greater share in the final results.
Among all this motley crew lurked disease, lust, and greed. The leaders of the enterprises reeked in greed, the hirelings exceeded in lust, but disease had no favorites.
Diseases were cosmopolitan like the people. Cholera from the Orient, peste from the West Indies, scurvy from the Antipodes, fevers from the ships and the camps of armies kept the city in continuous mourning. Though disease played the heavy role in this drama of life, still it acted its part when least expected.
Barclugh desired to buy a ship of Milling and FitzMaurice, and send her out to the West Indies with a cargo of flour, and return with rum and sugar. The profits would be large. He now had much money at command and no use for it. He thought that a few dollars turned over for a profit would not come amiss when he began his career after the Colonies were turned over to the mother country.
There was a ship, the Sea Nymph, lying in the Delaware, a prize belonging to Milling & FitzMaurice which had been bound from Havana to London, laden with rum and molasses; but her crew was attacked with the peste and inside of a week two thirds of her men were stricken with the disease.
In this critical condition the Independence, privateer of Milling & FitzMaurice, ran upon the Sea Nymph, and she struck with no resistance. Enough of the crew of the Independence who were immune to the disease were put aboard to take her into Philadelphia. The Sea Nymph was a new and handsome ship. She was lying in the stream waiting for her turn to discharge cargo, when Barclugh learned about her, and, although advised of the perils of the dreaded peste, he offered to buy her. Barclugh’s impatience to be doing business prevailed against his friends’ judgment, and he went aboard of her to inspect the ship.
His weakened physical condition put him under susceptible conditions to take the disease, and in ten days thereafter, Roderick Barclugh was stricken with the peste.
However, before this event, matters had culminated fast in Barclugh’s affairs. The tenth day of July, 1780, had arrived, and communication had been opened up between Barclugh and Andre at New York. By means of a few hundred pounds sterling, Barclugh had arranged to have letters addressed to John Anderson, Esq., New York, delivered to a boat from the Albatross, that landed at the Swede’s fishing hut on the Little Egg River. In return the fisherman brought a sealed package addressed to Mr. Gustavus, Philadelphia. Gustavus was the name of the Swede.
This line of communication was maintained at regular intervals,—whenever a load of fish came from Little Egg Harbor inlet, a sealed letter was delivered to Barclugh and an answer returned.
When Roderick Barclugh fell ill, he awoke in the early morning with terrible pains in his back and loins. He found that he was unable to arise, suffering intensely with a fever and pains in his joints. His man-servant went as usual to the door of Mr. Barclugh’s sleeping apartment but he did not find him astir, and as he listened, he heard slight groans. When he gently opened the door, there was Barclugh, helpless, breathing heavily, his eyes bulging. The only thing to do was to bring Doctor Biddle.
When Dr. Biddle arrived, a hurried examination of pulse, eyes and tongue soon convinced his experienced eye that the patient had the most dreaded of diseases in the seaport of Philadelphia,—the peste. By this time the sick man was unconscious, and the Doctor turned to the servant and said:
“I am sorry to inform you, but this gentleman has the peste. Who has charge of his affairs? We shall have to procure him nurses and medicines.”
As though a thunderbolt had come out of a clear sky, James, the servant, stood speechless and perfectly colorless at this announcement. At last he regained his self-possession and said:
“I will notify Mr. Milling; he knows Mr. Barclugh best. But I can not stay here and nurse him myself. My wife and children would die of fright.”
“But,” remarked the Doctor, “you have been exposed.”
“All right! all right! Doctor, but you see there’s a mighty difference betwixt the nursing of it and the staying away from it. Let these rich men who can afford to die, be having the risks. I will go and tell Mr. Milling.”
With that he put on his hat and ran to the office of Milling & FitzMaurice, and without any ceremony rushed into the presence of Mr. Milling, simply announcing:
“Mr. Barclugh, my master, has the peste.”
James then rushed out of the office of the merchant prince, and up Front street, telling every person that he met:
“My master, Mr. Barclugh, has the peste.”
Thus, inside of an hour, the whole town was put in a fever of excitement. Soon the number of cases was reported as a score; rumor had it that every one had been exposed.
At the office of Milling & FitzMaurice, a hasty consultation was held between the partners. The conditions under which the ship, Sea Nymph, had come into port, and how Mr. Barclugh had inspected her and had arranged to buy her, were discussed. The cargo of the Sea Nymph was in their warehouse, and no one could foretell the consequences.
During this discussion of their own affairs, Milling & FitzMaurice did not think of Barclugh. The Doctor waited and waited for some one to come, but no one came to his relief. The accountant, Mr. Hopewell, had heard the news on his way to the office, then had gone home to consult with his wife.
At last the Doctor became worried, and leaving his patient alone, he went to the office of Milling & FitzMaurice.
As he entered the accounting room, he walked quietly up to Mr. Milling and said:
“Sir, I sent Mr. Barclugh’s servant to tell you that that gentleman had the peste, and that he must have nurses and attention for he is a very sick man.”
“Oh, the man did not ask us for nurses,” contended Mr. Milling. “He simply told us that Mr. Barclugh was sick with the peste, and we had no idea that our services were needed for a mission of that kind.”
“There is no time to talk, gentlemen. Mr. Barclugh lies unconscious with fever, and I do not know to whom he can appeal in his distress but your house. Good day, gentlemen, I must be with my patient.”
As soon as the Doctor had left, Mr. Milling looked at Robert FitzMaurice as he said:
“Robert, what shall we do about this? I can not tie myself up for three weeks and be exposed to this fever, and neither can you. Our affairs can spare neither you nor me. Is there not some poor devil whom we can get to nurse him? Barclugh has plenty of money with us.”
“Yes,” responded FitzMaurice. “There is Barton, he needs the money, and he owes us; he ought to go and do this; he could then square our account.”
Barton was one of the men in the warehouse of the firm and had a young wife and four children. When the offer was made to him in the office of his employers, he answered:
“Gentlemen, my life and my family are just as dear to me as either of yours. I would not risk my life in that service for all of your combined wealth. My life is exactly as dear to me as to any prince or potentate.”
Mr. Milling looked at Robert FitzMaurice with a dissatisfied air, as he followed Barton’s footsteps and closed the door behind him, while he said:
“I believe Barclugh will be in pretty bad shape, before we can get any one to nurse him.”
In the meantime, however, the news of the fever began to travel outside of Philadelphia. Express messengers went on horseback to the north and to the south, and on the way to Germantown, the news of Barclugh’s fever reached Dorminghurst.
Dr. Greydon at once notified his wife and daughter. In less than half an hour his carriage was ready, and he had left, prepared with delicacies and medicines to succor a fellow being. There was no calculation of consequences on his part.
Mollie asked her father if she might accompany him, but he explained that she could be of little assistance, so she stood on the portico, and watched her father’s carriage until it had reached the road through the avenue of hemlocks.
But no sooner had her father’s carriage vanished through the trees, than she ran with all of her might to the lodge of Segwuna.
With eyes full of despair, she ran up to Segwuna, and exclaimed:
“Segwuna! Segwuna! I have just learned that Mr. Barclugh has been stricken with the peste, and father has started to go to him.
“Oh! Segwuna! what shall I do? What shall I do? I am fearful that something will happen to him, and father would not let me go to help nurse him,” as she burst into a fit of heart-rending sobs and buried her head on Segwuna’s breast.
“Do not weep, my sweetheart. If you cannot go, Segwuna can go. I will go and take the medicine that will save him. Do not fear, my dear.
“Segwuna will nurse him back to you. Be calm and let me get ready. It will not take me long to reach his side.”
Segwuna went to her mother and gave her a few directions; in a few minutes she was ready with a bundle of herbs, and with light step, and the light of a guardian angel shining out of her beautiful eyes, she and Mollie took the winding path down to the Wingohocking, then through the avenue of hemlocks to the highway that led to Philadelphia.
Mollie stopped at the huge gate at the roadside and kissed Segwuna thrice, as she bade her Godspeed, and prayed silently:
“That the sick one would have the protection of Divine Providence in his affliction, and that God would bless the efforts of her friend, Segwuna, to lead the sick one out of the ‘valley of the shadow of death,’ and bring him nearer to his God and His Son, Jesus Christ.”
“God bless you,” was the parting salutation to Segwuna as Mollie stood and watched the Indian maiden go lightly on her mission of mercy.
She watched her until Segwuna was a mere speck in the roadway, and then turned silently to go to her bed-chamber to pray for the man, whom she felt was dear to her, yet she could not tell why.
When Dr. Greydon reached the bedside of Roderick Barclugh, Dr. Biddle was bathing his patient’s hands and arms, and laboring over him to reduce the temperature. As the two doctors met in the sick-room, Dr. Biddle arose and quietly addressed his friend:
“Dr. Greydon, I am glad that you have come. This gentleman is suffering from a severe wound in the shoulder, and this fever has attacked him in a virulent form, and unless we can reduce the temperature, his chances are very slim for recovery.”
“Well, I am surprised to learn that he is wounded,” replied Dr. Greydon, “but I heard that he undertook a perilous adventure to pass through the enemy’s lines into New York, on a business enterprise; but where did he get this fever? Are you sure that it is vomito negro?
“I presume that he met with some hair-breadth escape when he undertook to get out of New York. How long has this paroxysm been running?” continued Dr. Greydon.
“Ever since early this morning,” replied Dr. Biddle. “He was in his usual health yesterday, his servant told me.”
Dr. Greydon quietly bent over the patient, and went through all the formalities of a medical examination. When he had finished he looked at Dr. Biddle and dubiously shook his head, as he said:
“Doctor, your diagnosis is correct. He certainly has vomito negro, and the depressed condition of his system from the shock that the wound has caused, must make his case critical, very critical.”
“Yes,” continued Dr. Biddle, “if we can reduce the fever, he will have to receive careful nursing and I have notified Milling & FitzMaurice that they shall have to send this gentleman a nurse, but none has come yet; and it is four hours ago that I saw them.”
“Well, well, this matter must be attended to at once,” contended Dr. Greydon, “and if you can remain a while, I will go and try to procure the necessary person and bring him here at once.”
“That is good, Doctor,” replied Dr. Biddle. “I can continue the bathing, and I can relieve the congestion by bleeding.”
Just as Dr. Greydon reached the street, and was about to enter his carriage, he heard a voice calling:
“Doctor! Oh Doctor!”
The Doctor turned and there was Segwuna.
“What is it, Segwuna?” asked Dr. Greydon.
“I have come to help nurse Mr. Barclugh.”
“Are you not afraid, my child?”
“Segwuna is not afraid to do her duty, Doctor.”
“You are right, Segwuna,” replied Dr. Greydon. “Then we will go in.”
Leading the way to the Barclugh apartments, Dr. Greydon conducted Segwuna to the sick-room on the second floor, and as they entered, the other medical man remarked:
“Well, our wishes were quickly answered.”
“Let me introduce Segwuna, the granddaughter of Altamaha; she resides on our estate and she has volunteered to help rescue the afflicted—I know that no one could do it better,” were the words of Dr. Greydon, as he took off his coat and began to get ready for the care of Mr. Barclugh.
Segwuna immediately straightened out the room. She went with Dr. Greydon through the house, and they found a large fireplace in the kitchen of the residence where Barclugh had his business offices and sleeping apartments.
There were a few pieces of wood so that a fire was soon going on the hearth. Then a memorandum of necessary articles of household utility was made, and in a very few minutes it seemed as though an angel had flown into the former desolate house. As Segwuna went from room to room, silently arranging a piece of furniture, and opening the windows and shutters, sunshine seemed to drive chaos away.
The life that Barclugh led seemed to be wrong; when sickness came upon him, money was mute. There was no loving kindness ready to be shown to him, except what came from God’s messengers. Poor mortal! He was lying unconsciously helpless, ignorant of the loving hands that now administered kindnesses unto him.
At the end of the day, the household was settled down to a routine; Segwuna had medicines, delicacies, linen and food for a long and tedious battle with the dreaded peste, but better still she had the instincts of a true nurse.
The sleeping-room on the second story, being the sick-room, she closed the shutters to let in a minimum of light; she placed a pure white linen cloth on the table; she kept cloths wet with vinegar on the parched brow of the patient. A vase of pinks that had been sent by Mollie from Dorminghurst was tastefully placed upon the table. In the restful moments of the sick man, she slipped down stairs to the kitchen and prepared a hot mustard bath for the feet, to relieve the congestion in the brain. Wrapping the patient in a woolen blanket, she placed his extremities in the hot bath, and then put him between clean linen to cool his burning body.
During the first twenty-four hours, the paroxysm of the fever was intense. The temperature was 105 degrees Fahrenheit, and as Barclugh lay suffering on his back the groans and tossing of the sick one were heart-rending. He was only semi-conscious most of the time, but Segwuna never flagged in her attentions. After Dr. Biddle had first administered a simple emetic, and then performed the customary bleeding for the first stages of the disease, a large dose of calomel and subsequently a half-tumblerful of oleum ricinum was administered to relieve the alimentary canal. It was then a fight of physical endurance against disease.
However, Segwuna knew that the doctors were groping in the dark in treating this disease, so she felt that much depended upon her skill in keeping down the temperature, and keeping up the sick one’s strength, in order to stand the ravages on his vital organs. When Barclugh tossed and raved in his delirium, she saw that he placed his hand upon his chest and stomach, and she felt that the fever must be burning the vital organs. So she prepared a hot plaster of mustard and placed it on the pit of his stomach. In a short time the patient seemed to get more quiet, and he rested easily until morning.
The second day Dr. Greydon arrived very early; as soon as he saw the patient, he remarked:
“Well, Segwuna, how is the gentleman this morning? I see that he is not quite as flushed as he was yesterday. If his strength will hold out to-day and to-morrow, we can hope to get him up.”
“Yes, Dr. Greydon, Mr. Barclugh is easier this morning, but he was very sick at midnight. He was nervous and in great distress so I put a mustard plaster on his stomach and it immediately quieted him.”
“You did perfectly right, Segwuna, my child. This fever seems to attack the membranes of the stomach, and if you apply external applications, you draw the congestion from the vital spot.
“Now, Segwuna,” continued Dr. Greydon, “you go and rest yourself, while I remain here. Then you will be able to stand another night’s vigil.”
“Very well, I shall do so,” and Segwuna went to the couch that she had prepared for herself in the former dining-room, where she slept soundly until late in the afternoon.
In the meantime, Dr. Biddle came and relieved Dr. Greydon at the bedside of Roderick Barclugh, so that he was not a minute without constant watching at his side.
Between the two doctors a consultation was held, and they both agreed that the sick man had a fighting chance for recovery, if his constitution could stand the wear on his stomach and heart. No food was to be administered until the fever was reduced, and then slight stimulants were to be given to re-enforce the action of the heart. Segwuna could nurse him by night, and the two doctors agreed to divide their time during the day with the patient.
When Segwuna awoke from her sound sleep, she made her way to the sick-room, and found Dr. Biddle taking his temperature with his thermometer.
The temperature was 104 degrees Fahrenheit, and the pulse was 95 and a glassy stare was noticeable in the eyes of the sick man who lay there in a condition of stupor. His face was of a purplish-red hue, and his cheeks began to lose that full and lively glow of health; a parched and drawn appearance of the skin over the cheek-bones began to be noticeable.
Also during the day he had suffered a few attacks of the vomito negro that taxes the strength of the human organism to the utmost.
Dr. Biddle whispered to Segwuna as she came beside the sick-bed:
“He is very sick and you better give him a teaspoonful of this solution in that tumbler every half-hour. If he can hold his own for the next thirty-six hours, he will begin to gain. This paroxysm of the fever usually reaches its crisis within three days, and after that, if his strength is sufficient to sustain vital action, his case is hopeful. But Segwuna, it all depends on the heart. This high temperature and this terrible pulse! If it lasts too long, there can be no hope.”
“Yes, Doctor, I know that this peste is a very grave disorder, and I shall not neglect your instructions,” replied Segwuna, as Dr. Biddle gathered up his medicine case and left.
The pride and power of man vanish when dread disease lays him low and brings him next to dissolution!
As Segwuna arranged all matters for her night’s vigil, she suddenly turned toward Barclugh, for, as he lay prostrate, his arms were waving wildly in the air as he exclaimed in his delirium:
“Arnold loves money! Yes, he loves money! Yes, General Clinton, he will get West Point from General Washington. I have offered him twenty thousand pounds sterling, and a General’s commission in the British army. Oh, that I had served my God with half the zeal I served my King. Yes, she is beautiful in her virtue. Oh! that wound will be the death of me! Yes, Risk shot me. There! There! All hands! Steady! Lads! Aim low!
“Oh say, Miss, was I talking?”
“Not much, Mr. Barclugh, be calm,” replied Segwuna, as she held the hand of the spy, and stroked his head, as he closed his eyes and dozed off into a semi-conscious state.
These words of Barclugh in his delirium, though disconnected, agitated Segwuna beyond measure. She had seen Barclugh leave on the Sloop-of-War Albatross when she spoke to him at Paule’s Hook in the dark. She had followed him to New York after he had visited at Dorminghurst. She had traced him to the Beekman House, and now she heard him in his delirium.
Segwuna knew that this referred to Arnold. She reasoned thus:
“What conspiracy was this that had been divulged to her? Must she inform Congress? No. She had come here because she loved Mollie Greydon, and she must save Mr. Barclugh’s life. The Great Spirit had given her this knowledge, and she must find out all she could about Arnold and Mr. Barclugh. She could serve Congress by wisely learning all she possibly could. She must not blast Mollie’s hopes until the whole truth is known.”
The night augured badly for Barclugh. He awoke from his stupor about ten o’clock, and his eyes showed intense suffering and sadness. He not only suffered intense physical agonies, but when his mind regained lucidity, thoughts of his plot with Arnold surged through his mind, and the look of anguish on his face was most pitiable.
As the hour of eleven o’clock drew near, Segwuna noticed that the eyes of her patient glistened more than before, and an expression of abject helplessness came over his face. His face was flushed perceptibly and the nervous stroking of his stomach indicated to Segwuna that her applications of mustard ought to be applied.
After these were administered to the feet and stomach, quietude succeeded the restless spell and the sick man lay peacefully until Dr. Greydon arrived in the morning. He noted a material reduction in the patient’s temperature. It was now down to 100 degrees, and the crisis seemed passed; but still the lower temperature did not indicate assurance of recovery.
When the fever begins to decline a period of low fever and depression follows. If a relapse now occurs, the patient succumbs; but Segwuna watched over her charge for ten days, until he was able to sit up and partake of some solid food.
During the period of calm succeeding the paroxysm of fever, an event occurred which threw more mystery than ever around the career of Roderick Barclugh.
One morning very early before the break of day, when not a sound disturbed the sick-room but the tick of the clock, and an occasional ship’s bell announcing the change of the watch, a loud rap sounded on the front door. Segwuna was all alone.
She went to the door, and there stood a burly Swedish fisherman whose eyes bulged in astonishment to see a woman appear.
“What do you want?” asked Segwuna sweetly.
“I want to see Maister Baarkloo,” drawled the Swede.
“He is very sick with the peste, I do not believe that he is able to see any one,” spoke up Segwuna.
“I haf sam lettar for heem, aand I give to heem—nobodday alse. I keep not mysalf,” argued the Swede doggedly, as he started to come in.
Segwuna stood in the doorway attempting to block his passage, but the Swede brushed her to one side and went straight for Barclugh’s room, and Segwuna followed closely after him.
When the Swede reached the door of the sick man’s room, he raised his hat and tiptoed up to the bedside of Barclugh.
As he stood beside the bed he drew out of his pocket a long sealed envelope, addressed:
“Mr. Gustavus,
“Philadelphia.“From John Anderson, Esq., Merchant.”
The Swede hesitatingly looked at Barclugh and saw him lying there and staring with a glassy look in his eyes, unable to speak or to recognize the Swede.
The fisherman turned stolidly to Segwuna as he said:
“I do my duty. I gav to nobodday alse.” As he said this he left the packet on the bed, turned with a sad air, and walked out of the house as mysteriously as he had come.
Segwuna took up the envelope and examined the address. She knew that the Swede was a fisherman from the New Jersey coast. She had seen Roderick Barclugh walk to the sloop of war at Paules’ Hook with Major Andre, and she had seen them both leave General Clinton’s house together.
She found Roderick Barclugh in Philadelphia, when she returned from New York. He could not reach here by the sloop-of-war, so he must have landed on the coast and have been brought here by the fisherman. As these thoughts ran through her mind, she exclaimed:
“I have found it! The letter has traveled the same course, and John Anderson is John Andre.”
What this shrewd woman could fathom out of the statements in Barclugh’s delirium and what she had seen in New York, was that Arnold was to go over to the British. If Arnold got West Point, she could put two and two together and connect him with the twenty thousand pounds sterling and the General’s commission in the British army.
Segwuna reasoned to herself as she watched the sick man, and thought of what she ought to do:
“I have the clew to this poor man’s secret. His villainy must be stopped. I shall not leave one stone unturned to fathom his plans. This letter contains important facts. I shall deliver it when he recovers and watch my opportunity to learn its contents after he has broken the seal himself. Any other course would arouse his suspicions.”
So she took the letter and placed it in the drawer of an escritoire and resolved to deliver it as soon as Roderick Barclugh regained enough strength to read it.
When the episode of the letter delivered by the Swede had been well considered, Segwuna reasoned to herself again:
“I must not arouse the suspicions of Mr. Barclugh. If I let him go on he will weave a net to entrap himself.”
Later, Segwuna was enabled to learn the contents of the secret correspondence after it had been given to Barclugh, who was too feeble and too sick to think that the simple Indian maiden was interested in his affairs.
At the end of two weeks, Roderick Barclugh was strong enough to be moved from his quarters. Consequently, after a most thorough destruction and cleansing of his effects, Dr. Greydon insisted upon taking Roderick Barclugh to Dorminghurst to recuperate his depleted body.
Barclugh, a mere shadow of his former self, was driven in the carriage of Dr. Greydon to Dorminghurst. As he passed along Front Street and up Market Street, he was saluted by General Arnold who smiled graciously to see his friend convalescing and out of doors.
When Dorminghurst was reached, there could be no mistaking the evident gratitude in Barclugh’s wan features as he saw Mollie rush out of the door and down to the carriage, extending both of her hands to him, as she said:
“How glad we are to see you with us again, Mr. Barclugh! I know that you will get strong very soon.”
“How kind of you to greet me so cordially, Miss Greydon. I owe my being here to-day to your esteemed father and to Segwuna,” replied Barclugh soberly as he arose with difficulty and got out of the carriage with the assistance of Dr. Greydon.
Dr. Greydon walked with Barclugh and assisted his feeble footsteps to the bright and airy room overlooking the Wingohocking.
Mrs. Greydon greeted him on the portico with such kindly words of welcome, and the black servants stood looking on with such respectful silence, that Barclugh could not help but wonder if it were not his own mother in his own home who was now greeting him.
The Doctor soon made him lie down on the snowy white bed, and ordered an egg-nog for his refreshment.
Sentiments of the tenderest feelings welled up in his breast upon the receipt of such hospitality, and he murmured to himself as he lay on his bed, peacefully resting:
“This kindness to me passeth all understanding. How shall I ever express my gratitude and return this compliment that has been paid me? No, I never expected such treatment as this from the hands of those whose cause I am endeavoring to defeat. Well, my turn will come, and then I shall show them my breeding.”
For the next few days Dr. Greydon would not allow Roderick Barclugh to move out of his bed, for his strength was not enough yet to allow very much exertion; but the new surroundings, and especially the beautiful presence of Mollie Greydon, were an inspiration to him.
Mollie took a lively interest in the welfare of her father’s guest and patient. Every morning she brought a fresh bouquet of the brightest flowers from the garden and placed them in the sick-room herself; then in the afternoon, she brought her Latin works along with her, and read selections to him.
She noticed how longingly he watched her depart.
In the sweet modulations of her voice, Barclugh found repose as he lay on his bed,—weak and emaciated. His strength was not enough to allow him to converse at much length, so that after Mollie had read these classics to him, his heart throbbed with tender emotions and the words that left his lips when she had finished:
“I thank you, Miss Greydon,” had the pathos of a heart full of gratitude.
As he lay with mind so clear but his body so weak, he often dreamed to himself:
“Oh! if my God will only restore me to my full powers again, I shall live only to be worthy of the love of Mollie Greydon. She must be all that is worth living for,—beauty, grace and loving kindness.”
Each day as Mollie brought the fresh flowers to the sick-room, and on each occasion that she read to the sick, she noticed how longingly he watched her depart, and how he beamed with joy whenever she entered his sick-chamber to read some well-chosen classic.
In the course of a week, Roderick Barclugh began to recover his appetite, and at the end of two weeks, he was strong enough to ride out in the carriage with Mollie and the Doctor.
The three would drive in the morning and in the latter part of the afternoon as far as Germantown, and along the banks of the Delaware.
These drives greatly benefited Barclugh’s health; he had also a most excellent opportunity to get acquainted with the one who was the desire of his heart.
One day as they drove toward Philadelphia they met Segwuna. Nothing would satisfy Mollie unless she rode with them.
Mollie made room for her on the seat in the carriage that faced Dr. Greydon and Mr. Barclugh.
“Don’t you think that our patient looks much improved, Segwuna?” queried Dr. Greydon, good-naturedly, as the carriage rolled along the highway.
“Yes, Dr. Greydon,” answered Segwuna, uncomfortably, as she sat looking vacantly into the carriage top.
The others attempted to be gay, but Segwuna’s presence cast a gloom over the ride; she neither smiled nor talked except in monosyllables.
“Have you learned anything of importance to-day in the city, about our affairs of war, Segwuna?” cheerily asked Mollie, turning to the Indian maiden with her happiest smile.
“Nothing, Miss Greydon, except what traitors would be interested in,” spoke out Segwuna, sternly.
At the mention of the word “traitor,” Segwuna looked straight at Roderick Barclugh, and she noticed a twitching of his lips and a visible blush mounting his neck and ears.
To allay any possible attention to himself, Barclugh now entered into lively conversation with Dr. Greydon and Miss Mollie, and utterly ignored Segwuna, who sat stolidly in a brown study during the rest of the carriage ride.
“Dr. Greydon,” began Barclugh spiritedly, “I am much interested in the agriculture of the Colonies. There seems to be a wonderful fertility to the soil, for a settler can go upon land with no capital but his hands and a yoke of oxen, and inside of a year have a comfortable plantation established. How can it be done? I do not understand it.”
“The soil is rich in the first place,” replied Dr. Greydon; “then our American products of Indian corn and potatoes provide abundance for man and animals, so that there is no difficulty in subsistence. The natural meadow and the grasses of the woods provide for sleek cattle and horses; then the abundance of wild pigeons, ducks, and turkeys and the fish of the rivers and lakes also provide food; the hides of the deer, bear, coons and squirrel provide raiment and robes. There is no reason for man to suffer in this wonderfully prosperous country, if he be industrious,” argued Dr. Greydon, with much satisfaction to himself, but evidently to the discomfiture of Barclugh, for he remarked:
“This is all so strange to me. I cannot understand how the settlements start up like mushrooms in the wilderness.”
“It is the promise of the Great Spirit,” contributed Segwuna. “But our soil must be forever free from the tyranny of kings and potentates, or the corn would not grow and the potatoes would wither and a famine would devastate the land.”
“Segwuna is our prophetess, Mr. Barclugh,” declared Mollie, exultingly, “and we all love her dearly,” continued Mollie, as she turned to Segwuna, and putting her arms around her neck, kissed her.
Barclugh did not relish the affection that Mollie showed for Segwuna, so he remarked emphatically:
“We cannot rely on superstition, Miss Greydon.”
The latent fire of the Indian character gleamed in Segwuna’s eyes, and she longed in her heart to wither Roderick Barclugh, but the time was not ripe. Segwuna simply kept silent and abided her time.
After the carriage had arrived at Dorminghurst, Dr. Greydon and Barclugh sat upon the portico and conversed upon sundry subjects while Mollie and Segwuna strolled off together toward Segwuna’s lodge, Mollie remarked:
“Something has made you unhappy, Segwuna. What has happened to you?”
“Oh, nothing, my sweetheart. Your Segwuna’s heart bleeds for her country’s welfare, and I can see that something is to happen during the next moon that will make us all unhappy; but your Segwuna can not tell her sweetheart now. It might make me wish that I had not spoken about it, if it should not happen.
“I wish that my dearest one would excuse Segwuna and let her go to her lodge, and pray to her Manitou to clear her sky and bring happiness to her spirit, for her heart is very sad to-day,—very sad to-day,” repeated Segwuna.
“Yes, yes, my loved one,” replied Mollie. “Your Mollie loves you and knows how pure and noble her Segwuna is. Good night, dearest. Good night,” were the parting words of Mollie Greydon, as she kissed Segwuna, and left her to return to the mansion.
While the two were strolling on the winding path, Roderick Barclugh and Dr. Greydon sat on the portico and conversed freely. Barclugh resolved to confess the longings of his heart before his departure, as he knew that he must soon leave Dorminghurst.
He opened the difficult subject by saying:
“Dr. Greydon, I have now been a guest at your house for two weeks, and under trying circumstances to your household. I feel that I owe my life to your tender care and solicitation. My father could do no more for me; but I hope that you will not consider I am presuming on your good nature, when I unfold to you an affair of my heart; and ask of you one of the greatest favors that one man can bestow upon another.
“Dr. Greydon,” continued Barclugh, “ever since I first met your daughter, I have esteemed her as one of the most talented and beautiful women in this country, and since I first was a guest in your home, I have learned to love her; I ask you to give her to me for my wife. My position and means and prospects warrant me in making this request and I hope that I may deserve the great honor that I ask you to confer upon me.”
After a moment of silent reflection, Dr. Greydon replied most reverently and in the peculiar language of his Quaker persuasion, which he used only on occasions of great emotion:
“Thou hast been good enough for me to invite thee to my home. If I had not thought thee good enough to be my son, thou shouldst not have been my guest; but my daughter must give thee her own consent before thou canst have mine.”
At the conclusion of these solemn injunctions, Barclugh arose, silently shook the hand of Dr. Greydon and retired to his bed-chamber for meditation.
During the evening after Barclugh had asked the consent of Dr. Greydon, an air of expectancy pervaded all except Mollie. Dr. Greydon had told his wife about Barclugh’s request and she realized the importance of this day to her darling daughter, who was one of the flowers of the earth in her sight.
A mother rejoices in the proper selection of a husband by her daughter, and Mrs. Greydon, one of those good, wholesome souls, believed in whatever her husband proposed, so that when the Doctor informed his wife of Barclugh’s intentions, she simply said:
“Thou knowest best what is right, William;” and was satisfied to rest on his wisdom.
Mollie was utterly oblivious to the ordeal in store for her on this particular evening. She was more witchy and poked more lively sallies at Barclugh during the dinner than she ever had before on any one occasion, but Barclugh blushed and took the pleasantries good-naturedly. Yet Mollie noticed that she was doing most of the talking, and wondered to herself why everybody was so sober and she so lively. Nevertheless, her buoyancy of spirits could not be downed and she continued her play of wit and humor throughout the dinner.
When the dinner was finished, Mollie said:
“I have the prettiest ode of Horace that I was translating before dinner, and I must have papa and mamma and you, Mr. Barclugh, come to the library and I will read it to you.”
So Barclugh offered Mollie his arm, and Dr. Greydon his to his wife, and the four went up the great staircase to the library.
Mollie went to the book-shelves, while the others seated themselves on the carved oak settles, facing each other before the great fireplace. Mollie took the edition of Horace and seated herself at the head of the large library table and began to read:
INTACTIS OPULENTIOR
At the conclusion of the ode, Dr. Greydon remarked:
“Mollie, there is much wisdom in our Latin poets. Simplicity and virtuous lives are the safeguards of nations. When Horace sang, the Roman people began to feel the dangers of wealth and riotous living; may our own country escape these baneful influences.”
Mrs. Greydon looked at her daughter with loving eyes when she had finished her translation, and turning to Mr. Barclugh, said as she arose to leave the young people to themselves:
“Mr. Barclugh, we take much pleasure in our Mollie’s preaching. We hope that she will not bore you.
“You will pardon the Doctor and me for retiring so soon, but we have many duties to perform.”
The Doctor and Mrs. Greydon then left the library to allow the young people to have their own conversation.
When Dr. and Mrs. Greydon had left Roderick Barclugh and their daughter to their fates, Barclugh sat on the settle with his arms folded on his breast, and looking squarely at Mollie Greydon, ventured the words that were burning within his heart:
“Miss Greydon, I wish to address you on a subject that is most dear to my life. I——”
“Why, Mr. Barclugh, what is it that you mean?” interrupted Mollie as she put down her book.
“Miss Greydon, I believe that I could recover my former health more quickly if I could settle one thing in my mind,” continued Barclugh.
“I am sure that if there is anything to be done you ought to do so at once, Mr. Barclugh, for you have been a very ill man,” returned Mollie, as she looked at him and saw that peculiar expression that she had noticed in his eyes when he sat opposite her at the breakfast table two months before.
Roderick Barclugh now looked at Mollie, who instantly felt that some great ordeal was impending. He arose and took Mollie’s hands in both of his as he knelt at her side, and pleaded:
“Miss Greydon, I have loved you since that day I first met you at your father’s table. My life is a void without your presence at my side. Will you be my wife?” he asked as he took Mollie’s hand and pressed it to his lips.
Mollie sat in her chair as though she were fashioned from marble. Her beautiful face was transfixed away from Barclugh, and her gaze was that of a frightened fawn. She could not answer.
At length Barclugh pleaded:
“Speak! Mollie, speak! My heart and my life go out to you with sincerity and love! Will you consent to be my bride, and make me the most favored man on earth?”
Mollie arose and went to the other end of the library table, and looking at her lover said:
“It is impossible that you could love me, Mr. Barclugh. I am a Quakeress.”
“That matters not, my dear Mollie. I have learned that God’s loving kindness resides within the hearts of your people. I was saved from an untimely death by the love and kindness of your dear father, and I know that you had no less to do with it than he. So I feel that I am the one to be unworthy of any affection that your heart possesses,” contended Barclugh.
“I am highly complimented, Mr. Barclugh, by your kindly and unexpected attentions to me, but I feel so unable to render any one happy that I could not answer you at once. I must have time for meditation and consultation with my parents.”
“There is no reason, dearest, why you ought not to have time. If you will only consent to consider my love, so that I shall have an opportunity to prove my worthiness, I shall be more than happy. Promise me this much, Mollie. I shall then have a chance to show you how much I love you?” pleaded Barclugh passionately.
Mollie sat down at the end of the table, buried her face in her arms and began to sob and weep pitifully, and Barclugh stood disconsolately at the other end of the table.
At length Barclugh went to the end of the table where Mollie sat, and taking her hand in his, he knelt at her side, and pleaded earnestly:
“Mollie, will you satisfy the longing of my heart by promising me that you will answer me in a month? Just give me a ray of hope, that I may live for your sake. Mollie, just promise me, just promise.”
Between the sobs that fairly tore the heart’s moorings of Barclugh, Mollie replied, feebly:
“In a month, Mr. Barclugh.”
Barclugh then took her hand and kissed it until he was beside himself; then he arose and left Mollie alone in the library.
He resolved to go to his own lodgings the next morning, determined to win his loved one by the ardor of his attentions.
Mollie’s supersensitive mind was overcome by the appalling nature of the question that was made to her; and she thought how unworthy she was to make another mortal happy for a lifetime. She needed the guidance of reflection and the help of prayer to the All-wise Being that cares for the most humble of His creatures.
When Barclugh arrived at his office on the day that he departed from Dorminghurst, Benedict Arnold was there.
Dr. Greydon had left his guest at the door and before entering his carriage, shook Barclugh heartily by the hand, as he said:
“Thou hast my blessing, my friend, and may our happiness always continue as bright as it has been in the past fortnight.”
Barclugh was so overcome by the sincerity of his former host and benefactor that he was visibly affected when he replied:
“I thank you sincerely, Dr. Greydon, for all that you have done for me. I owe my life to your attentions.
“Give my love to Miss Mollie,” were the parting words of Roderick Barclugh, as he turned to enter upon the sterner duties of his business.
Greeting Arnold by the salutation: “Good morning, General,” Barclugh walked into his private office, followed by Arnold who shut the door behind them.
“I am delighted to see you so well, Mr. Barclugh,” began Arnold. “It does seem more than four weeks since you were taken ill.
“But I have good news for you, Mr. Barclugh. My commission as commander of West Point has been promised. I have seen the Commander-in-Chief personally.
“I shall move my headquarters there this week. Now all that we need to do is to arrange the details of the surrender when I get there.”
“That’s all right,” interrupted Barclugh. “I can communicate with you and forward your correspondence through our old channel until you wish to arrange the details, when you can plan to meet Major Andre and make out a plan of attack and surrender.”
“That’s it, that’s it, there need be no hurry until I get on the ground and fix things,” continued Arnold enthusiastically. “But Mr. Barclugh, before I can decently leave this town, I must settle all my household debts. So, if you can favor me with five hundred pounds to-day, I shall be pleased. I will simply consider it as an advance in the total amount. I need it for expenses, you know.”
“Certainly, certainly, General Arnold, you must get away as soon and as decently as possible,” replied Barclugh, going to the iron safe on the other side of the office to get the money.
When General Arnold had received the money and arose to depart, he smiled significantly to Barclugh, as he remarked:
“I am feeling like my old self once more. My fighting blood is up. No use talking, the sinews of war put the nerve in a man.
“I am sorry to go at once, Mr. Barclugh, but my duties are pressing, and I must close up my affairs here at the earliest possible moment. Good day, Mr. Barclugh. I feel very grateful for your assistance,” concluded Arnold as he left Barclugh’s office.
Roderick Barclugh called his clerk into his private office, as soon as General Arnold departed, to give his orders:
“Mr. Hopewell, you may see Messrs. Milling & FitzMaurice and close all of my privateering and other accounts with them except the Bank of North America matter. Tell them that my illness has necessitated my giving up everything except the banking business, which shall now receive my exclusive attention.”
“Very well, Mr. Barclugh,” answered the faithful clerk, as he proceeded to carry out these injunctions.
Roderick Barclugh now had accomplished the purposes for which his dealings with Milling & FitzMaurice had been started. He had used this channel to ensnare Arnold and to procure an introduction to the leaders of society in Philadelphia, Tory and Whig, alike.
But there was only one question, if he were to withdraw his whole account from Milling & FitzMaurice, they might be embarrassed. Having planned to put this amount into the bank, he could let it lie in their hands, as a loan, until the bank was established.
General Clinton must now be advised of the turn of affairs, so Barclugh busied himself at the task of writing a complete history of the transactions since the beginning of his illness and despatched the letters by the Little Egg Harbor inlet route.
After Segwuna read the letters of John Anderson that had been brought from New York by the Swedish fisherman, she could not bear the sight of Roderick Barclugh. The thought of Mollie Greydon ever loving this man who was visiting General Clinton and Major Andre, and conspiring with General Arnold and at the same time visiting the Greydon family, was repulsive to her. She did not yet possess knowledge positive enough about Barclugh to inform Mollie of its nature; nor did she yet really know that Mollie was in love with Mr. Barclugh. Still she fully intended to devote her attentions to this conspiracy and expose its operations, if possible.
As Segwuna lay on her couch of mats in her mother’s lodge, on the day that she had been invited to ride in the carriage with Mollie and Mr. Barclugh, she went over and over again all that she had learned:
“I first saw Mr. Barclugh after Mollie had met him at the dinner party given by Robert FitzMaurice. Every day that I went to Philadelphia I found Mr. Barclugh at the office of Milling & FitzMaurice or at General Arnold’s. In watching him I followed him to the office of General Arnold on the night before he visited Dorminghurst. I learned that he was going to New York to visit General Clinton and get a commission for General Arnold in the British army if Arnold turned over West Point. The next morning he stopped at Dorminghurst and visited my friends. I could not inform any one of what I knew for fear of implicating my friends, for I did not know what the relations were between Dr. Greydon and Mr. Barclugh.
“Now, it is all clear to me. Dr. Greydon does not know anything about Mr. Barclugh’s business. Mr. Barclugh pretends to favor independence, but he is striving to overthrow it. When I followed him to New York, I suspected more; when I heard his exclamations in the delirium of fever, I was convinced. The letters brought by the fisherman have shown that he is in communication with the English.
“Segwuna must not rest night nor day until this spy is foiled in his designs; if I should inform anybody, suspicion might fall upon my friends at Dorminghurst who have befriended Mr. Barclugh and saved his life. That course would never do, so the duty falls upon Segwuna alone to overthrow the spy’s work and save her friends!”
She set about her task of thwarting Barclugh with much zeal. She walked to Philadelphia and went immediately to Front Street near Barclugh’s lodgings. The first thing that met her eyes was the departure of General Arnold from the office of the British agent.
Segwuna kept her own counsel, but she was alert and active. She went to the Halls of Congress and watched for any news that might be of importance to her task. She heard Mr. Livingston talking to General Schuyler about West Point, so she stopped to listen.
The conversation was about the report of the committee on army affairs, and Mr. Livingston stopped General Schuyler in front of Carpenter’s Hall.
“General Schuyler, have you done anything on your committee about Arnold’s assignment?” asked Mr. Livingston. “I have written to the Commander-in-Chief and asked him to assign Arnold to West Point. His wounded knee will not allow him to ride a horse and that fact unfits him for active service in the field.”
“Yes, you are right, Mr. Livingston,” replied General Schuyler, “Arnold is a valuable man. The soldiers admire him. We will assign him to post duty and recommend giving him West Point, if he declines to take the field. The Commander-in-Chief wishes him to be active in the coming campaign, but if Arnold insists upon garrison duty, he may get whatever he wishes.”
This settled the matter in the mind of Segwuna, for she knew that Arnold desired West Point. Now Segwuna must determine what she ought to do to keep her eyes on Arnold and Barclugh at the same time. She learned from the fish-vender, Sven Svenson, another point that put her on her guard.
Sven was ambling along Market Street with his fish cart, when Segwuna stopped him and said:
“Good morning, Sven, what is the news in town?”
“Val, I hap gude news, Miss Segwuna; Ganral Arnold has pade me up tan pound starling an’ sax pance,” answered Sven as he showed the guineas and smiled blandly at Segwuna.
“He vas going to da army to vark. I gass he vaants Vast Point. My saster who varks for Mistrees Arnold, she tald mee so mach.”
“Do you think that he will get it, Sven?” asked Segwuna.
“Ah! He gats vat he vants,” retorted Sven, smiling more than ever.
“Thank you, Sven,” replied Segwuna knowingly, as she started on up the street.
Philadelphia’s streets contained little knots of men and women discussing the latest news, and everybody had it on his tongue that General Arnold was about to leave town, and no one was sorry, for his cold and overbearing manners had disgusted even his friends with him.
His extravagance and debts had brought unsavory gossip upon himself and household. As Segwuna went through the market-place where two old women,—seasoned gossips of the town,—stood and regaled each other, she paused to hear their chatter:
“Have you heard about General Arnold and his spouse?” quizzed the first.
“What? About paying off his debts?” questioned the second.
“I wonder where he got the money? I heard that he sold merchandise to the enemy,” continued the first one.
“No, he went to Connecticut last month and has just returned. He must have had property there and sold it,” argued the second one.
“Have you heard what they named their boy?”
“No, what is it?”
“It’s Edward Shippen.”
“What? That old Tory?”
“Yes, that’s it. Those Shippens have turned Ben Arnold’s head. He’s not the same since he became mixed up with that lot.”
“Well, Ben Arnold used to be a fine soldier before he knew those Shippens. Now he doesn’t want to fight, he wants to lie around and play the dandy.”
“Yes, I heard that General Washington wanted him to join the army, but his wife is afraid that he will be shot. That’s a pretty pass. I wonder if she’s better than any of the rest of us? We have husbands and sons fighting.”
“I wonder where they will put him? I heard that he wanted to go to West Point.”
“Yes, if I were General Washington, I wouldn’t do anything like that. There must be some fire where there is so much smoke. He doesn’t want West Point for any good purpose.”
“Well, I believe Ben Arnold is all right at heart if those Shippens didn’t have a noose around his neck.”
“Poor man! I feel sorry for him.”
“But, do you know that I started to go to market, and here I am talking yet.”
“Yes, that’s my case too, I must go.”
“Come over to see me.”
“Yes, I will.”
“Good-bye.”
Segwuna came into Philadelphia every few days. She kept close watch on the movements of General Arnold. She knew that as soon as he got stationed at West Point, matters would begin to move between him and Major Andre. Accordingly, she learned when Arnold left Philadelphia. She also heard about ten days thereafter that he had taken command at West Point, August 3.
There was nothing for Segwuna to do when she had learned that Arnold was stationed at West Point except to be on the ground where she knew the dealings between Arnold and Andre would take place. The next move that she made was to get her affairs at home all arranged, and tell her mother that she was going to New York.
She could meet Major Andre and advise him against his plot. If that plan failed, she could make her way to General Washington and advise him of the advance of the British troops. Thus her friends would have no suspicions cast upon them for their intimacy with Barclugh. Then when the plot had been foiled, she could return to Philadelphia and advise Dr. Greydon about Barclugh’s participation in the plot.
Mollie Greydon was sitting on the portico at Dorminghurst just after a visit from Mr. Barclugh one warm afternoon in the latter part of August. She had just been receiving the most marked attentions from her lover. He never missed paying his respects to her at least three or four times a week.
On this afternoon, Segwuna came tripping down the avenue of hemlocks, and before she got to the portico, Mollie put down her needle-work, and ran to greet her.
“Why, Segwuna,” she said, “you have been so mysterious of late, I have not seen you for over two weeks. What has been the matter? I have something to tell you, my dear.”
“I have come, my sweetheart, to tell you that Segwuna is going away.”
“Going away?” cried Mollie. “What for?”
“I am going to New York for General Washington,” replied Segwuna. “His enemies are conspiring to defeat his plans and Segwuna’s duty calls her to go. I have studied out what my duty is and I have worked to get ready to go now. But before I go, I thought that I would come and tell you.
Mollie put down her needle-work and ran to meet her.
“You must not let any one know where I am going, not even your father,” cautioned Segwuna.
“Very well, Segwuna. Now I must tell you a secret of mine,” returned Mollie. “Do you know, Mr. Barclugh has asked me to marry him?”
“Have you promised him?” demanded Segwuna impulsively, as her face became the picture of solicitude.
“Why do you look so eager and ask me that question?” asked Mollie impatiently.
“But tell me, have you promised? If you have, I know that you would have told me,” argued Segwuna.
“No, I have not promised. I asked a month to consider.
“I also wish to learn about his family and his business. I believe that he loves me, and I believe that I could love him. He is so handsome, and a perfect gentleman,” continued Mollie.
“Very true, my dear Mollie. I know that he loves you. He may be very rich too, but you must know all about his business. He has been in Philadelphia less than a year. He was introduced by Benjamin Franklin, but his business is unsettled. Privateering is very precarious,” argued Segwuna.
“Now, my dear Mollie, Segwuna’s life is devoted to yours. Promise me just one thing. Do not give your consent until Segwuna returns. If you promise him in this moon, your life may be unhappy. Wait until the next moon and everything will be clear.”
“I believe that your advice is good. I must be certain that he loves me and that I could make him happy, before I consent. Because, when I once promise, my lot is cast,” reasoned Mollie, as Segwuna kissed her, and walked sprightly down the avenue of hemlocks.
Mollie was resigned to wait. The wisdom of the Quaker character was sufficiently grounded in her to cause her to be sure of her step before she made one, and there were so many things to be considered before she could promise.
Segwuna looked a perfect picture of nobility of character this evening, when she left Mollie at Dorminghurst. Her tall, lithe figure and elastic step, her dark hair hanging in a braid upon her back, her long, oval face, firm mouth, deep-set eyes, aquiline nose, bare head and olive complexion combined to produce a distinguished presence. Her dress consisted of a tunic of buckskin, a short skirt, leggings and moccasins of the same material. She wore no ornaments and the only thing that encumbered her on her journey was a bag or knapsack made of fine buckskin suspended on her back by means of a strap over her shoulders and breast.
Barclugh grew impatient and chafed under the uncertainties of his position. He had restricted all of his business since his illness to the plot with Arnold and to the establishment of a bank among the merchants. Arnold was now at West Point and had been joined by his wife. The latest despatch that Barclugh had in Philadelphia from Andre was that negotiations had been opened up with Arnold and that he expected to have the whole matter consummated within a week.
In spite of the apparent serenity of his affairs, he paced the floor by day and tossed in his bed at night. The thoughts of Mollie Greydon’s demeanor of late disturbed him.
“She does not enter into conversation with her former frankness and abandon. There must be some restraining influence at work. I must have this uncertainty off my mind. I shall go to her to-morrow and have my mind clear about her love for me. Her time of a month for the consideration of my proposal will be up in a week, but I cannot postpone this longer. I must settle the matter to-morrow.”
On the day succeeding his resolution, Barclugh went to Dorminghurst early in the afternoon and invited Mollie to accompany him on a horseback ride to the Delaware.
Mollie received her suitor with a gracious smile, as it was perfectly evident that she admired Mr. Barclugh (for in spite of his despicable secret mission he was worthy of better things) and the two very soon were on their way, gayly cantering down the avenue of hemlocks.
The afternoon was one of those sere, autumn days in late October. The sun shone through a hazy smoke and the air was crisp and bracing. The smoke curled out of the chimneys, lazily ascending, loath to leave the environment of its former condition in the fireplace; but the calm atmosphere allowed the ethereal vapor to hover about the old chimney and house and to fill the hemlocks with a pungent incense.
This pungency of the smoky atmosphere oppressed Barclugh but to Mollie it was like a sweet odor. She rattled off small-talk, as, aglow with her buoyant spirits, she rode her prancing bay.
Barclugh never had such a task to perform as now confronted him. To broach the subject nearest his heart would cast a gloom over the one whom he loved better than his own life. As he rode closely to the side of his companion, he could feel his heart throb violently, and as he sat stolidly in his saddle, between his monosyllabic answers to Mollie’s gayety, he thought:
“What ails you, old soul? Are you losing the power of speech? What a pity to molest the happy life of such a perfect being! But we are selfish. Yes; her life must be linked with mine. She can make me a better man. Is it something in the poise of her head? is it something in the way that she rides her horse? No, it is what she thinks, her unconscious nobility of soul, that enthralls me.”
“Well, Mr. Barclugh, let us take a spurt on this fine stretch of road. My Prince is chafing for a dash,” suggested Mollie as she looked up into her companion’s face, who evidently was in a reverie.
“Good!” exclaimed Barclugh, somewhat startled. “Let’s go!” So he spurred his horse and as if by magic the two finely-bred steeds responded to the spirit of their riders and leaped into the air for a brush.
Barclugh at once was on his mettle. To be challenged for a race by the one whom he adored was the tonic needed for his soul. The somber spell that depressed him was gone as he turned and saw Mollie urge on her steed. She was a daring horse-woman; her mount was peerless. Barclugh felt the blood mount to his hair as Mollie came up and rode past and smiled roguishly at her lover as she distanced him.
Mollie reined in and turned around with her face full of animation as she asked spiritedly:
“How’s that for my Prince, Mr. Barclugh?”
“Splendid! splendid!” exclaimed Barclugh in admiration of the restless steed and the aristocratic form of Mollie, who, breathing fast, glanced at her whip with which she struck her habit, for she intuitively felt the ardor of Barclugh’s gaze and the blood mounted to her cheeks.
Here was the moment for Barclugh to ask the question uppermost in his mind. But he did not. The power to encroach upon the sacred precincts of the innermost soul of the one whom a refined nature loves is like admiring the rose and then tearing up the roots that give it being. A refined nature pauses at desecration.
Barclugh had offered himself, and Mollie had asked a month to answer. The gnawings at a man’s heart often lead him through labyrinths of impatience and indiscretion that are hard to untangle and bring him into paths that are serene and pure. But on the other hand, it often happens that the woman withholds her answer to a man’s avowal because she must satisfy the questionings of a heart that needs more than a mere avowal to convince her that the man is sincere and thoroughly in earnest.
However, the exhilaration of the gallop with Mollie had cleared the cobwebs from Barclugh’s brain. He looked upon Mollie as magnificently noble and pure. She would certainly answer him at the end of the month and if then she could not declare herself, he would know that some further proof of his devotion must be made.
“Yet after all of the fine calculations that one can make,” thought he, “love thrives without reason.”
Their way now lay through a wooded glen. The horses stepped smartly and pranced proudly as their nostrils extended out of their classic heads.
“How beautiful this day!” exclaimed Mollie with enthusiasm. “I rejoice to be here!” as she stroked the arched neck of her steed with her shapely gloved hand. Mollie rode her horse as though she were mistress of the situation. Her feminine intuition told her that her lover was craving to declare his devotion, but she would have despised him for it. She knew that the ground on which she trod was sacred until the four weeks had passed. Yet she was fearful lest the promise to Segwuna could not be kept. Her party was to be held in two days and she was to dance in the minuet with Mr. Barclugh. She was satisfied as things were.
“What makes you so happy and beautiful this evening, Miss Mollie?” ventured Barclugh at last.
“I don’t know,” replied Mollie archly.
“May I guess?” queried Barclugh after some reflection.
“Don’t guess. I don’t like guessing,” retorted Mollie impatiently.
“But you will allow me this time?” returned Barclugh in his most dulcet tones.
“No; I can not,” replied Mollie, as she spurred her horse and started on a canter, Barclugh following her lead.
“Look! Mr. Barclugh, there is the Delaware!” exclaimed Mollie as she pointed toward a broad expanse of the river, at the same time looking at Barclugh with a roguish twinkle in her eyes.
“Confound those four weeks,” thought Barclugh; then he said:
“I don’t see so much in that to rave over. I am interested in better views. I am interested in you, just now.”
“Nonsense! Mr. Barclugh,” protested Mollie. “You ought to have better sense,” while she good-naturedly laughed at the evident discomfiture of her lover.
Barclugh now colored, for he felt sheepish in his awkward position. In another instant, however, he smiled, himself, and they rode down the banks of the Delaware discussing pleasantly the beauties of the landscape.
Barclugh recognized the fact that the fates were against him and he concluded that the better part of valor was to wait for a more propitious time. However, something within told him that the present was his opportunity, for he thought:
“He who hesitates is lost.”
The road now took them over the Wingohocking as the crimson setting of the sun shone over the rippling water and the autumnal hues of the landscape mellowed the disappointment in his breast.
When the avenue of hemlocks at Dorminghurst was passed and he led Mollie from her horse up to the portico, Miss Mollie smiled more than graciously as she said:
“Now, Mr. Barclugh, I shall depend upon you at my party for the minuet.”
“Thank you, Miss Greydon,” replied Barclugh, bowing very low, “but don’t forget that I shall claim my answer in another week.”
We next find Segwuna in New York. She was well acquainted with the way thither, for she had traversed it many times. While pursuing her purpose in New York, Segwuna lived with a small band of Iroquois on Staten Island.
Segwuna found much favor among the ladies of the English officers, for her skill as a prophetess was already established.
She now made it her particular business to call often upon the ladies of General Clinton and General Knypthausen; and, also, upon Major Andre in his office, one afternoon, when the principal business of the day was over.
The offices of the Adjutant-General of the British Army were at No. 1 Broadway, in one of those old Dutch houses the entrance of which led up a short flight of steps to a huge door having an iron knocker.
Dormer windows faced the street in the second story, and the hip roof was covered with shingles that were coated with moss and lichens,—evidences of an ancient construction.
When Segwuna rapped with the iron knocker on the huge door, a red-coated English Sergeant opened it, and the prophetess modestly inquired:
“Is Major Andre in?”
“Yes, Madam,” was the reply.
“May I see him?”
“He is very busy,” returned the Sergeant. “Will you give your name, and state your business?”
“Tell him that Segwuna, the Indian prophetess, has news to tell him.”
“Will you come in and be seated?” continued the military man, who ushered her into the outer office of the Adjutant-General.
Segwuna went into the outer office and sat down while the Sergeant rapped on the door of the private office, and a voice within said:
“Come in.”
The Sergeant opened the door carefully and walked up to the desk of the Adjutant-General and stood at attention until Major Andre turned from a letter on his desk and glanced up at the soldier, who saluted:
“What is it?” brusquely asked Andre.
“A young Indian woman, who calls herself Segwuna, the prophetess, wishes to bring you news.”
“Show her in, Sergeant Donovan,” ordered Andre.
The Sergeant went to the outer office, and politely informed Segwuna:
“The Adjutant says that he will see you, Madam.”
Segwuna tripped lightly to the door and entered the presence of one of the most polished and handsome gentlemen of the British army. Dressed in the most fastidious manner, his young and pleasing face shone out with an animated expression of good-will as he arose and bowed gracefully to Segwuna and said:
“Be seated, Miss Segwuna. I have heard very pleasing accounts of you from Madam Clinton. Do you wish to tell me what my fate will be, this evening?”
He had heard the ladies of his acquaintance raving over the wise and peculiar speeches of this Indian maiden, and Major Andre thought that he also ought to have something to relate.
A weak point in the military composition of Andre was his romantic and artistic disposition. He loved the society of ladies. His graceful manners and polished speech and writings gained him friends among the ladies of his associates; but his love of foibles and gossip led him into channels that detracted from his military achievements.
When Segwuna proposed to tell his fortune, he yielded from the very constitution of his nature. He desired to have a good tale to tell his lady friends at the next dinner party, where he was sure to be lionized.
Segwuna simply replied to Major Andre’s question, modestly:
“Yes, Major Andre.”
“I hope that I have no very bad omen in my fortune, Miss Segwuna?” said Andre, quizzically.
“Well, Segwuna shall have to tell you the truth, Major Andre,” replied Segwuna soberly.
“All right, do you believe that I am going to succeed in my enterprise, Segwuna?” asked Andre, bluntly.
“That depends on the will of the Great Spirit, Major Andre,” began Segwuna, as she started to relate her account to the Adjutant-General.
“Segwuna sees that something very momentous to you and your cause is going to happen this moon. The nature of your business concerns the fate of a great fortress and a brave general. I can see the general walking up and down the bank of a great river, waiting to speak to you. He wants you to come to him, but if you go to him, he is sure to give you directions that will bring ruin to you.
“These enterprises will require you to travel by land and by water. If you keep on the water, you will have no harm come to you, but beware of the land.
“The Great Spirit has been kind to you, but he does not love your cause. You are fighting against the will of the Great Spirit when you try to subdue the land to which he gave the Indian corn. The Great Spirit hath decreed that every man is to be his own master, and there is to be no distinction between men, in the land of the Indian’s corn. If the hunters starve, the chiefs are to starve also.
“I can see that you expect a letter of importance. It is to be brought by a boat and a fisherman from a distant city. The letter comes from a gentleman that has your secrets. He writes under a different name from his own.
“There are many trials for you to pass through during the next moon, and if you leave the city on a journey to the general walking on the banks of the great river, you shall lose your life.”
Segwuna paused and said no more.
Andre sat as though fixed to his chair. His thoughts were afar off. The words of the Indian maiden seemed to stun him, and confound his understanding. He started to rise and to speak, but he sat down again, turned away and began to think.
At last he regained enough presence of mind to state to Segwuna:
“I am profoundly impressed with what you say. I shall be pleased to consult you again. I hope that I shall reward you sufficiently by giving you this small token of my esteem,” as he arose and held out in his hand a guinea for Segwuna to accept.
Segwuna arose and declined the proffer of the gold by declaring with dignity:
“I thank you, Mr. Andre, but the Great Spirit hath no token of worth, except His bounteous love and kindness.”
Major Andre could say nothing. He was dumbfounded. He simply bowed Segwuna out, overwhelmed by the startling revelations made by this sagacious Indian prophetess.
Major Andre went back to his desk, and sat down for serious reflection.
He reasoned with himself:
“Here was a picture of Arnold and Barclugh. How did this simple Indian maiden get such knowledge of my secret affairs? She can have no means of gaining this knowledge. She is simply inspired.”
During the next week, Andre could not dispel the visions of Segwuna’s prophecy. He did not dare to tell his friends, not even General Clinton, for they would think him ridiculous. He was naturally timid, and these words made him doubly so. They made him hesitate more than once as to what he ought to do. Whereas he was formerly all enthusiasm about his plot with Arnold, he now began to be doubtful and suspicious of his own ability. The thought of the ire of the Great Spirit of the Indian maiden being brought to bear against the project that he had in hand worked upon the fancy of Andre’s poetical nature and unnerved him.
However, the Commander-in-Chief, General Clinton, had ordered Andre to carry out these plans of ensnaring Arnold and taking West Point by bribery, for it had been through the correspondence started by Andre himself, that Arnold was led into correspondence with the enemy. The whole plan had to carry or fall by the exertions of Andre’s own skill.
A letter was received by Major Andre at this time which read as follows:
Phila., August 20, 1780.
“Sir: I have heard from Mr. P—— about the arrangements to sell you the goods that you spoke of in your last favor.
“He has every detail arranged, but he must meet you to make the contract in person. My authority in the matter has now come to an end.
“He is still of opinion that his first proposal is by no means unreasonable, and makes no doubt, when he has a conference with you, that you will close with it. He expects when you meet that you will be fully authorized from your house; that the risks and profits of the co-partnership might be fully and clearly understood.
“I am in behalf of Messrs. M—— and Co.
“Sir, Your Obedt. & Hble. Servant,
“Gustavus.
“Mr. John Anderson, Merchant.”
John Anderson answered the above letter. Then, a few days thereafter, information was received from Gustavus, agreeing to meet him at any convenient point, if he, John Anderson, would make his way to the American outposts above White Plains; that he would be secure under the protection of Colonel Sheldon, who was prepared to meet him.
Arnold had informed Colonel Sheldon that a person was to come from New York, to the latter’s quarters, whom he desired to meet for the purpose of establishing a channel of secret intelligence with New York.
Accordingly, Colonel Sheldon received the following letter, which was so uncertain and enigmatical that Colonel Sheldon despatched it at once to General Arnold:
“New York, September 7, 1780.
“Sir:
“I am told my name is made known to you and that I may hope your indulgence in permitting me to meet a friend near your outposts. I will endeavor to go out with a flag, which will be sent to Dobb’s Ferry on Monday next, the 11th instant, at twelve o’clock, where I shall be happy to meet Mr. G——. Should I not be allowed to go, the officer who is to command the escort, between whom and myself no distinction need be made, can speak on the affair. Let me entreat you, sir, to favor a matter so interesting to the parties concerned, and which is of so private a nature that the public on neither side can be injured by it.
“(Signed) John Anderson.”
To Colonel Sheldon,
Salem.
Sheldon was confused by the mention of an officer taking the place of John Anderson, and therefore sent the letter to Arnold, who tried to explain the mysticisms in the letter to Colonel Sheldon as best he could; and replied that he would meet the flag and the gentleman himself at Dobb’s Ferry.
Arnold also instructed his subordinate that if he did not meet John Anderson, by any mishap, word must be sent to headquarters of the arrival of the gentleman within the lines, and that John Anderson must be sent to his headquarters with an escort of two or three horsemen.
Arnold went down the river in his barge as far as King’s Ferry on the afternoon of the 10th instant, and remained over night at the house of Joshua H. Smith, who resided near the Ferry.
Early on the morning of the 11th instant, Arnold proceeded by barge to Dobb’s Ferry for the purpose of meeting Andre. An accident prevented the interview. As Arnold was approaching the destination, his barge was fired upon by British gunboats and pursued closely enough to endanger his life and possibly result in his capture.
He landed, therefore, on the west or opposite side of the river to Dobb’s Ferry, and went down to the ferry landing, where he remained till night, hoping to see Andre. At all events, he failed to have a meeting on this journey.
The astonishing forecast of Segwuna had made Andre over-cautious and timid. He did not choose to hazard his mission by land to Colonel Sheldon. He chose the safer communication by water. He went to Dobb’s Ferry with Colonel Beverly Robinson, and looked for Arnold to come in his barge, but the firing upon the barge makes clear why Arnold did not get to the rendezvous.
The timidity of Andre now explains the ultimate failure of the plot. Arnold was obliged to explain his public journey down the Hudson, by writing to General Washington to the effect that guard boats and signal lights were necessary precautions to warn the country of the approach of the enemy up the river.
The object of Segwuna’s visit to New York had been accomplished. She had intimidated Major Andre, and foiled the treachery of Arnold. If the interview as first planned at Dobb’s Ferry had taken place the recital of subsequent events would have been unnecessary.
Now complications arose. Every fresh move that Arnold made required explanations as to the movements of John Anderson. A second attempt to have Andre meet with him by means of the overland route was not considered favorably by Andre. He would not attempt to meet Arnold, except under the pretense of an exchange of flags.
The only way for General Arnold to successfully accomplish his treachery was to meet Major Andre personally, plan the surrender of West Point and have his emoluments and rewards guaranteed. He depended upon such a meeting and was bold enough himself, but his first attempt at Dobb’s Ferry was empty of results and he was now thrown into cautious movements. He had to explain to the Commander-in-Chief about his public trip down the river; and the fact that he had been fired upon and pursued by the enemy’s gunboats gave notoriety to his whereabouts. The failure of the Dobb’s Ferry interview must rest upon Andre, for Arnold was truly bold and fearless in his approach within the enemy’s lines; Andre must have been intimidated by the warning of Segwuna.
Arnold returned to his headquarters from Dobb’s Ferry disappointed and nonplussed. He wrote from Robinson House at once to Major Andre:
“I have no confidant here. I have made one too many already who has prevented some profitable speculations.”
Arnold’s anxiety for a meeting was now only exceeded by that of the British, after the first failure; so Arnold stated that he would send a trusty person to the east side of Dobb’s Ferry, Wednesday evening, September 20th, who would conduct Major Andre to a place of safety where a meeting between the principals could be held without fear.
Arnold added:
“It will be necessary for you to be in disguise. I cannot be more explicit at present. Meet me if possible. You may rest assured that, if there is no danger in passing your lines, you will be perfectly safe where I propose a meeting.”
The letter was signed Gustavus and addressed to John Anderson, Merchant.
However, before these instructions reached Major Andre by Arnold’s secret messengers, the British General Clinton became very anxious and dispatched the Sloop-of-War Vulture on the scene, with an emissary on board in the person of Colonel Beverly Robinson, who was now in the secret of the negotiations. He had also accompanied Andre to Dobb’s Ferry when Arnold’s barge had been fired upon. The Vulture proceeded to Teller’s Point within view of the American lines for the purpose of awaiting developments.
The unexpected, however, always happens to hinder schemes. General Washington came on a tour of inspection, at this juncture, and crossed the Hudson at King’s Ferry in full view of the Vulture soon after her arrival.
General Arnold came down, of course, from his headquarters, Robinson House, to meet the Commander-in-Chief in order to throw off any suspicions surrounding his movements.
Washington and his suite crossed in Arnold’s barge and as the Commander viewed the Vulture through his glass and turned and spoke to his suite in whispers it was noticed and commented upon, subsequently, that Arnold blanched and showed much concern.
While still in the boat, Marquis de la Fayette turned to General Arnold and with a desire to get information of the whereabouts of the French fleet under Guichen, now approaching American waters, and with no suspicions whatever upon Arnold, pleasantly requested:
“General Arnold, since you have a correspondence with the enemy, you must ascertain as soon as possible what has become of Guichen.”
Arnold immediately colored up and demanded:
“Marquis de la Fayette, what do you mean by asking me such a question?”
The question of Arnold was surprising and uncalled for and he quickly recovered himself.
Fortunately for him, the boat was nearing shore and the anxiety to land interrupted the incident. Arnold imagined that his scheme was detected and that he was to be captured in the boat.
Arnold went to Peekskill with Washington and his party. The next day Washington went to Hartford to meet the French Commander and Arnold returned to West Point in his barge.
The British now desired to get into direct communication with Arnold through Colonel Robinson on the Vulture. Finesse had to be used to deceive the watchful post-commanders on the Hudson under the command of Arnold. So, under the protection of a flag of truce from the Vulture, Colonel Robinson sent a letter to General Arnold asking the military to protect his property since he had learned that his home was to be confiscated by the State of New York for his defection to the British cause.
General Arnold submitted the letter to his Commander at Fishkill and in consequence General Washington did not approve of the proposal to have an interview with the enemy concerning a purely legal affair.
The Commander-in-Chief informed Arnold:
“Such a conference would afford grounds for suspicion in the minds of some people and I advise you to avoid it; the subject in which Colonel Robinson is interested does not come within the powers of a military officer and the Civil Government of the State is the only authority to which he can properly apply.”
Arnold now used the name of Washington to answer Robinson’s letter. He, therefore, despatched a boat openly to the Vulture, under an officer and a flag.
Here came Arnold’s opportunity to give the British all the information that he desired. The answer was in two letters,—one sealed within the other. The outer one gave Washington’s reply. The inner one stated secretly that he would send on the night of the 20th a person to Dobb’s Ferry, or on board the Vulture. This person would be furnished with a boat and a flag of truce. He wished that the Vulture remain where she was until the messenger reached her. The postscript of the letter said:
“I expect General Washington to lodge here on Saturday night next, and I will lay before him every matter you may wish to communicate.”
The inside one also contained a copy of the letter heretofore sent to Andre to meet his messenger on the east side of Dobb’s Ferry on the evening of September 20th. This was the 19th, and the three letters were despatched at once to General Clinton in New York.
September 20th, Major Andre, having received Arnold’s letters, pressed on to the Vulture and arrived at seven o’clock in the evening instead of remaining at Dobb’s Ferry as at first proposed.
Andre was all expectancy when he arrived on board the sloop-of-war. He waited for Arnold or his messenger, all night. The next day he wrote General Clinton that he had made a second appointment with no results. The interview must be very soon or suspicions would be aroused to upset the whole plan.
A ruse was now invented by Major Andre to acquaint Arnold of his whereabouts. Some parties had shown a flag of truce on shore to the Vulture and a boat was sent to communicate with them. When a boat with a flag from the Vulture approached the shore it was fired upon from ambush. This violation of the usage of warfare was a subject for remonstrance. Therefore, a letter was sent to General Arnold by Captain Sutherland of the Vulture, claiming usage against the code of civilized nations at war. The letter was in the handwriting of Andre and signed, “John Anderson, Secretary.” Here was the information sought. Arnold immediately set about the plan to bring Major Andre ashore for an interview.
Joshua Hett Smith lived about two miles below Stony Point, near the mouth of Haverstraw Creek. He had boats and boatmen. He was a confidant of Arnold and was engaged, upon various occasions, to enter the enemy’s lines for the Commander of West Point.
Arnold’s plan was finally fixed. He went to Smith’s house and sent two boatmen with Smith to bring a gentleman, named John Anderson, from the Vulture to a point four miles below Smith’s house, to a lonely spot on the banks of the Hudson, in the darkness of midnight.
Arnold had provided Smith with three papers signed by himself.
When the boat started from the mouth of Haverstraw Creek it was past eleven o’clock and the night was serene. The boat sped along undiscovered until the lookout on the Vulture hailed and ordered the men alongside. Smith mounted the side and was immediately ordered below.
There he met Captain Sutherland and Colonel Robinson. The latter he knew personally, for Robinson had been his neighbor on the Hudson. Smith handed over the papers from Arnold. The cunning displayed by Arnold was portrayed in these documents. Shielding himself from detection he secretly intimated his desire to meet Major Andre.
The first letter addressed to Colonel Robinson was as follows:
“Headquarters, Robinson House,
“September 21, 1780.“This will be delivered to you by Mr. Smith who will conduct you to a place of safety. Neither Mr. Smith nor any other person shall be made acquainted with your proposals. If they (which I doubt not) are of such nature that I can officially take notice of them I shall do it with pleasure. I take it for granted that Colonel Robinson will not propose anything that is not for the interest of the United States as well as himself.
“(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”
The next letter was to deceive the guard boats, many of which were stationed along the Hudson to intercept commerce with the enemy.
“Headquarters, Robinson House,
“September 21, 1780.“Permit Mr. Joshua Smith to go to Dobb’s Ferry with three men and a boy in a boat with a flag, to carry some letters of a private nature for a gentleman in New York, and to return immediately, he having permission to go at such hours and times as the tide and his business suit.
“(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”
The third one conveyed the knowledge secretly that Arnold wanted Major Andre to meet him on shore.
“Headquarters, Robinson House,
“September 21, 1780.“This grants permission to Joshua Smith, Mr. John Anderson and two servants to pass and repass the guards at King’s Ferry, at all times.
“(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”
When the papers had been examined in the cabin of the Vulture, Colonel Robinson excused himself and returned in a little while with a gentleman whom he introduced to Smith as Mr. John Anderson. Smith and Anderson entered the boat and were rowed to the point of rendezvous arranged by Arnold with Smith. Arnold, concealed in the shadow of the cliff, lay near the river bank anxious for the boat to return with Major Andre. The exact spot had been agreed upon.
When the boat, which was heavy and cumbersome, at length arrived, Smith scrambled up the bank and found Arnold in the bushes. Smith returned and conducted Mr. Anderson to the spot. Arnold requested Smith to leave them to conduct their conversation privately.
Arnold looked around to be sure that Smith was out of hearing when he extended his hand to Major Andre, remarking in a subdued and resigned tone:
“At last, Major Andre, my hour of deliverance has come! I hope no difficulties stand in the way of our plans.”
Andre was more than eager for the exploit,—he was rashly anxious. His voice showed evident emotion when he said:
“General Arnold, we stand ready to carry out our part. Can you surrender West Point?”
“I am able to surrender to your forces the stronghold of our hopes, and end the war for the mother country. It will be a blessing to my countrymen and an everlasting benefit to the kingdom of Great Britain. But, sir, how am I to be sure that the promise made me by Roderick Barclugh will be carried out?” was the reply given the question of Andre.
“General Arnold, I am the authorized representative of His Britannic Majesty and for your services to the King you are to be paid twenty thousand pounds sterling, part of which has already been advanced by Mr. Barclugh, and you are to receive a commission as Brigadier-General in His Majesty’s service. These emoluments are dependent upon your accomplishment of your own proposals.”
“That’s all correct, Major Andre,” returned Arnold, “but how am I to realize these terms if by chance you were to be killed or I was to be detected in this business? My only safety is in having the whole matter drawn up in the form of a writing.”
“But we cannot do such things here in the dark, General Arnold. You had better defer too much formality for the sake of safety. You are dealing with gentlemen,” argued Andre.
“But governments have no gratitude,” retorted Arnold, smarting under his experience with Congress.
“Yet, how can we write in these bushes?” continued Andre. “I cannot see my hand. I propose to get back to the ship from here.”
“There is no use for haste in our conclusions in this matter,” argued Arnold. “I have to submit to you the plans of the works at West Point, the disposal of the garrison, the time of the attack and how you shall approach. I have brought an extra horse and you can ride with me to the house of Mr. Smith. I shall guarantee you protection and safety in returning to your lines.”
Andre understood what it meant to prepare for the details of this enterprise and at last he reluctantly consented to go within the American outposts as he said:
“I shall rely upon you as a gentleman to convey me in safety to my lines. My commander has instructed me not to enter your posts; but since you insist upon an agreement in writing, I shall have to comply with your plans.”
“Major Andre, you need not say these words to me. I have been driven to this course by the relentless attacks of those for whom I have done the most. My heart went out at first to my country, but now it has turned to stone. No gratitude was shown me. I needed money and from whom did I get it? I got it from my country’s enemies. I needed sympathy for my wounds. From whom did I get it? Not from my countrymen. I needed encouragement to go out and win more glory for our cause. Where did I get it? Not from my country. Bah! These very mountains taunt me for being a fool! My die is cast and I am with you heart and soul. We must succeed.”
“You speak nobly, General Arnold,” insisted Andre. “I am drawn to you irretrievably and I am willing to run my risks along with yours. I shall follow you even though my life were in the balance.”
At this juncture the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Smith from the boat, who said:
“Gentlemen, I believe that your time is drawing near to daylight and I must leave this situation with the boat. We must not be discovered in this position by the guards.”
These words decided the case. When Arnold and Andre realized their position and when Smith informed them that the boatmen had refused to return to the Vulture for fear of detection, both of the conspirators mounted horses and started for Smith’s house, which was four miles distant by the road through Haverstraw village.
Smith and the boatmen went by water to Haverstraw Creek, where the boat was moored. At his house Smith met Arnold and Mr. Anderson who had already arrived just at daylight.
The three took breakfast together, since the family of Joshua Smith had been previously taken, by arrangements made beforehand, to visit with their kinsfolk, the family of Colonel Hay at Fishkill.
During the morning, in a room overlooking Haverstraw Bay, Andre and Arnold secretly concluded the plans. Andre made the agreement in writing with Arnold, and Arnold gave to Andre a detailed description of the redoubts at West Point and continued with a plan of attack for a bloodless English victory.
But again the hand of Providence brings about unexpected events. While these dealings were concluding, they heard the booming of cannon and saw the Vulture drop down stream out of range of the battery posted by Colonel Livingston to drive off the enemy’s ship.
Much concern now came over the principals in this drama. Arnold reassured Andre by stating that Mr. Smith would convey him by boat or land through the American lines. Passports from the Commanding-General would insure safe convoy through the district under Arnold and then when Andre reached the British outposts he could manage himself.
Providing Major Andre with three passes to meet all possible contingencies, as he thought, and leaving him in the hands of Mr. Smith as Mr. John Anderson, Arnold returned in his barge soon after nine o’clock that morning, to his headquarters to await the results of his treachery.
Following are the passes provided for the return of John Anderson, in Arnold’s own handwriting:
“Headquarters, Robinson House,
“September 22, 1780.“Joshua Smith has permission to pass with a boat and three hands and a flag to Dobb’s Ferry on public business and to return immediately.
“(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”
“Headquarters, Robinson House,
“September 22, 1780.“Joshua Smith has permission to pass the guards to White Plains and to return, he being on public business.
“(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”
“Headquarters, Robinson House,
“September 22, 1780.“Permit Mr. John Anderson to pass the guards to the White Plains, or below, if he chooses, he being on public business by my direction.
“(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”
Andre passed the day in hiding, awaiting impatiently for darkness to come that he might be returned to the Vulture. But the more Andre insisted, the more opposed Smith grew to the route by boat. However, Smith won his point for reasons not entirely logical, and after Andre had exchanged his officer’s red coat for one of Smith’s, and had wrapped himself up in a great military coat with a cape, the two set out on horseback, a little before sunset, accompanied by a negro servant belonging to Smith.
The route lay across the Hudson at King’s Ferry from Stony Point to Verplanck’s Point. The party, after stopping over the first night, proceeded successfully until they reached Pine Bridge on the Croton River where Smith left Andre to pursue his own course through the neutral country.
Smith now returned to Robinson House and reported to General Arnold where he had left Mr. Anderson. Arnold seemed to be more than pleased with the progress events were making at this report. He felt sure of Andre reaching King’s Bridge.
When Andre left Smith he also felt assured of his success, for he rode boldly along until he was near Tarrytown.
Here he was accosted by three men dressed in the uniform of British soldiers.
Their story is best told in their own words. Paulding, one of the three, said, when relating the capture:
“Myself, Isaac VanWart, and David Williams were lying by the side of the road about half a mile above Tarrytown, and about fifteen miles above King’s Bridge, on Saturday morning, the 23rd of September. We had lain there about an hour and a half, as near as I can recollect, and saw several persons we were acquainted with, whom we let pass. Presently one of the young men who were with me said:
“‘There comes a gentleman-like looking man, who appears to be well-dressed and has boots on, and whom you had better step out and stop, if you don’t know him.’
“On that I got up and presented my fire-lock at the breast of the person and told him to stand, and then I asked him which way he was going.
“‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I hope you belong to our party.’
“I asked him:
“‘What party?’
“He said: ‘The lower party.’
“Upon that I told him:
“‘I do.’
“Then he said: ‘I am a British officer out of the country on particular business, and I hope you will not detain me a minute.’
“To show that he was a British officer, he pulled out his watch, upon which I told him to dismount.
“He then said:
“‘My God, I must do anything to get along.’
“He seemed to make a kind of laugh of it and pulled out General Arnold’s pass, which was to John Anderson to pass all guards to White Plains and below. Upon that he dismounted and said:
“‘Gentlemen, you had best let me go or you will bring yourselves into trouble, for your stopping me will detain the General’s business. I am going to Dobb’s Ferry to meet a person there and get intelligence for General Arnold.’
“Upon that I told him I hoped he would not be offended, that we did not mean to take anything from him; and I told him there were many bad people going along the road, and I did not know but perhaps he might be one.”
Paulding stated:
“If Andre had not declared himself a British officer, when he produced General Arnold’s pass I would have let him go. However, when he pulled out his watch my suspicions were further aroused.”
The three volunteers searched Andre, and David Williams, one of the party, relates this part of the story most minutely:
“We took him into the bushes,” said Williams, “and ordered him to pull off his clothes, which he did; but on searching him narrowly we could not find any sort of writings. We told him to pull off his boots which he seemed to be indifferent about, but we got one boot off and searched in that boot and could find nothing. But we found there were some papers in the bottom of his stocking next to his foot, on which we made him pull his stocking off and found three papers wrapped up. Mr. Paulding looked at the papers and said he was a spy. We then made him pull off his other boot, and there were found three more papers at the bottom of his foot within his stocking.
“Upon this we made him dress himself and I asked him:
“‘What will you give us to let you go?’
“He said:
“‘I will give you any sum of money.’
“I asked him:
“‘Will you give us your horse, your saddle, bridle, watch and one hundred guineas?’
“He said:
“‘Yes, and I will direct them to any place, even this very spot, so that you can get them.’
“I asked him:
“‘Will you not give us more?’
“He said:
“‘I will give you any quantity of dry goods or any sum of money, and bring it to any place that you pitch upon, so that you may get it.’
“Mr. Paulding answered:
“‘No, if you would give us ten thousand guineas, you should not stir one step.’
“I then asked the person who called himself John Anderson:
“‘If it lay in your power, would you not get away?’
“He answered:
“‘Yes, I would.’
“I told him:
“‘I do not intend that you shall.’
“While taking him along to the nearest post, we asked him a few questions, and we stopped under a shade. He begged us not to question him and said:
“‘When I come to any Commander I will reveal all.’”
Andre and all of the papers found on him were taken to North Castle and turned over to Lieutenant-Colonel Jameson.
Jameson unwittingly sent Andre immediately under a guard toward Arnold’s headquarters, and despatched a note with the officer in charge of the escort, to Arnold, stating that a certain John Anderson was taken on his way to New York. He also stated that certain papers found in his stockings and which were of “a very dangerous tendency,” had been forwarded to General Washington.
The mistake made by Lieutenant-Colonel Jameson was discovered by Major Tallmadge, next in command, when the Major returned to North Castle in the evening and heard the story of the capture. Jameson was convinced of his mistake in sending the prisoner but he would not listen to the idea of not informing Arnold, his Commanding General, of what had happened. He did not suspect his superior in the least.
However, a messenger was despatched to overtake the escort and to order the prisoner back to North Castle, but to still forward the message to Arnold’s headquarters. The fate of Arnold now seemed problematical. But a chain of circumstances favored the traitor.
Andre was ordered back and sent to Salem under Major Tallmadge. A messenger was sent with the guilty papers to intercept General Washington, now on his way to West Point from Hartford, and the first messenger was riding toward Robinson House to inform Arnold of the capture of John Anderson and the papers.
General Washington missed the messenger because he returned on the road north of the one on which the messenger was sent.
On the morning when Washington was due at Robinson House to breakfast with Arnold, two of the aides-de-camp of the Commander-in-Chief were sent ahead to inform General Arnold that the General was delayed because he wished to inspect the redoubts across from West Point, and not to wait breakfast. General Arnold then sat down to breakfast with Mrs. Arnold and the two aides.
During the progress of the meal a messenger arrived and presented the Jameson despatches to General Arnold.
Arnold read them and excused himself from the table without a sign of excitement. He went to Mrs. Arnold’s chamber and ordered a servant to call Mrs. Arnold. When she came to him, he hurriedly explained that his life depended upon escape. She swooned in his presence and he left her prostrate on the floor.
He went to the dining-room and stated to the aides:
“I have to go to West Point and prepare for the arrival of the General.”
He then hurriedly mounted a horse of one of the aides and dashed to the landing where his barge was moored. Then ordering his men to row with all their might, as he drew his pistols and sat in the stern, he sped past the guard boats with a flag and reached the British Sloop-of-War Vulture, fifteen miles below Robinson House.
After introducing himself, he surrendered the innocent boatmen to the British Commander and wrote a letter to General Washington asking mercy for his wife.
After General Washington had inspected the redoubts opposite West Point, he went with his suite to Robinson House. Upon their arrival they were informed that General Arnold had been hurriedly called to West Point. Washington ate his breakfast and started with all of his staff except Colonel Hamilton. They took a barge across the Hudson to the forts.
As Washington stood in the barge viewing the highlands about him, he said:
“Well, gentlemen, I am glad on the whole, that General Arnold has gone before us, for we shall now have a salute and the roaring of the cannon will have a fine effect among these mountains.”
When no cannon was heard and they saw nobody astir among the garrison, Washington exclaimed:
“What! Do they not intend to salute us?”
The General and his party landed and found no one to greet them except the Commandant, Colonel Lamb, who was very much surprised to see his distinguished visitors.
Washington addressed him:
“How is this, sir? Is not General Arnold here?”
“No, sir,” replied the Commandant, “he has not been here these two days, nor have I heard from him within that time.”
“This is extraordinary,” continued Washington. “We were told that he crossed the river and that we should find him here. However, our visit must not be in vain. Since we have come, although unexpectedly, we must look around a little and see in what shape things are with you.”
When the forts and redoubts had been visited and the garrison inspected, Washington and his party returned to the barge and recrossed to the Robinson House.
The letters and papers that had been forwarded by Lieutenant-Colonel Jameson to General Washington had followed the Commander-in-Chief on the road to Hartford until it was learned that the General had returned to West Point by the upper road. Then the express retraced his steps to Robinson House.
Colonel Hamilton was alone at Arnold’s headquarters when the incriminating papers arrived and immediately opened the despatches in the absence of his chief at West Point. Here were the papers found in Andre’s stockings and a letter from Andre to Washington disclosing his true character as Adjutant-General of the British army and relating his entry within the American lines, his departure therefrom in disguise and his capture.
Upon the landing of General Washington and his staff at the Robinson House from West Point, Colonel Hamilton was seen to walk briskly toward them, and when he spoke to Washington in an undertone, they retired quickly together into the house.
Here lay the exposure of the whole plot when the papers were perused by Washington, but too late to entrap the traitor. Arnold had gone over to the enemy and had made his escape to the Vulture. Andre was a prisoner at Salem and had written a confession of the part that he had played.
Mrs. Arnold had been left ignominiously by the traitor, her husband, and in her distraction she wept and raved alternately and accused General Washington and Colonel Hamilton, when they sought to console her, with a plot to murder her child. Her lamentations were pitiable and heart-rending in the agony of her despair. She clasped her child to her breast as she stood in the doorway of her chamber, hair dishevelled, as she hurled the bitterness of a woman’s tongue against those who, history tells us, held nothing but the deepest sympathy for her misfortune.
At last Mrs. Arnold returned to her father’s home in Philadelphia and remained there until the Council of Philadelphia passed a resolution, October 29th, as follows:
“Resolved:—that the said Margaret Arnold depart this state within fourteen days from the date hereof, and that she do not return again during the continuance of the present war.”
Major Andre was conducted under guard, to the vicinity of the Continental Army at Tappan. He was there tried by a Court of Enquiry composed of six Major-Generals and eight Brigadiers, found guilty as a spy and condemned to be executed.
Arnold and General Clinton attempted to save Andre’s life on the ground that he had Arnold’s pass. But as the pass was issued to John Anderson it was void when applied to Major Andre.
Credit must be given Andre, however, that he did not seek justification, personally, during his trial for his acts under a flag or pass from Arnold. He was reconciled to his fate and died as a brave and honorable officer, dressed in the full uniform of the Adjutant-General of the British Army, at Tappan, October 2, 1780.
When Segwuna heard of the capture of Major Andre and the exposure and flight of Benedict Arnold, she thanked the Great Spirit for the fulfillment of her prayers. She did not exult in the downfall of the participants in this attempted crime against her native land, but she thanked the Great Spirit for the exposure of their perfidy and dishonesty. She now could explain to her friends the part that was played by Barclugh in this nefarious undertaking and if, then, her duty had not been performed she could not help it.
At the first announcement in New York about the capture of Andre and the flight of Arnold, Segwuna lost no time in retracing her steps to Philadelphia.
“You have been very quiet these past few weeks, Miss Mollie. What has been the matter? We have not seen you,” contended Miss Sallie Redman, when she greeted Mollie at the Greydons’ party.
The old mansion at Dorminghurst was brilliantly illuminated and the guests were fast arriving in carriages, and passing up one side of the double staircase and down the other.
People were beginning to come to Philadelphia for the autumn session of Congress. The French army had landed at Newport, and the French fleet was fitting out for a demonstration against New York or against some other stronghold of the English. Enthusiasm among the Whigs was running high. The Tories were beginning to look with more favor upon independence. The French minister M. de la Luzerne was the popular lion of the hour, and anywhere that he was invited was sure to be thronged with the dignitaries of a new nation.
The Greydons began the social season for the purpose of preparing society for the early announcement of the engagement between Roderick Barclugh and their daughter. When the invitations were first issued, the purpose was to announce the engagement at this time, but Mollie would not yet give her consent to Barclugh. Dr. Greydon could see no reason, but Mollie was waiting to see Segwuna. However, Dr. Greydon consulted with his wife and decided that if the announcement of the engagement could not be made, a social function at Dorminghurst at present would crystallize the enthusiasm of the Whigs and bring the counsellors of the nation together for an exchange of ideas and sentiments.
Mollie received with her mother and Dr. Greydon when the guests came into the reception room. She was beaming with good-nature but when she saw Roderick Barclugh approaching with the brilliant and haughty Miss Bessie Shippen on his arm the color rose to her cheeks as Barclugh shook Mollie’s hand and lingered long enough to say:
“You charm me with your beauty and happiness this evening.”
Miss Shippen shook the hand of Mollie with hauteur and looked at her gown with indifference; and when she and Barclugh passed on through the crowded rooms, she remarked bitterly:
“I do not see why that young Quakeress turns the men so crazy.”
“Because she has sense, beauty and no guile in her heart,” retorted Barclugh snappily.
Miss Shippen exclaimed:
“Ah, that is it!”
The Shippens, the Redmans, and the Chews were there among the chief representatives of the Tory sentiment. They congregated in groups by themselves and seemed to feel that their sentiments were not popular, when they saw the brilliant assemblage of Whigs from every state, conversing about the topics of the hour.
General Schuyler from New York was talking to M. de la Luzerne, the French minister, about the campaign, spiritedly:
“This arrival of the French troops and the fleet at Newport has given us new life, M. de la Luzerne,” explained General Schuyler. “General Washington has gone to Hartford to meet Count de Rochambeau. Our committee expect to hear from him at West Point on his return. The campaign is expected to take on an active turn if Clinton moves out of New York,” concluded the General.
“Thank you, General Schuyler,” returned the French minister suavely. “By the way, General, did I ever tell you how Arnold wanted to borrow money from me on account of his importance and influence in affairs?”
“Why, no. Do tell it,” insisted the General.
“This is strictly entre nous, General,” related the minister. “Arnold wanted a loan from the French government and I quickly told him: ‘You desire of me a service which would be easy for me to render, but which would degrade us both. When the envoy of a foreign power gives, or if you will, lends money, it is in order to corrupt those who receive it, and to make them the creatures of the sovereign whom he serves; or rather, he corrupts without persuading; he buys and does not secure. But the firm league entered into between the King and the United States is the work of justice and the wisest policy. It has for its basis a reciprocal interest and good-will. In the mission, with which I am charged, my true glory consists in fulfilling it without intrigue or cabal, without resorting to any secret practices, and by the force alone of the conditions of the alliance,’” concluded M. Luzerne.
“Bravo, bravo, M. Luzerne. That Arnold has given our committee much concern and trouble. He is a brilliant leader, but he has no sense of propriety or diplomacy,” asserted General Schuyler, who left the minister as he seemed to be holding a small reception of his own,—so many people pressed around him to say a word about the arrival of the French troops and fleet.
The music and dancing were going on in the large rooms across the great hallway from the reception room. Mollie was there holding court, entertaining a group of the younger men with her brilliant repartee.
Family representatives of the members of Congress from the South were there;—each family coming in an equipage of its own.
The minuet was danced in its stateliest fashion; Miss Greydon and Roderick Barclugh, Sally Chew and Mr. Carroll, Miss Hancock and Mr. Custis, Miss Schuyler and Richard Henry Lee, formed the set. As the music swelled in rhythmic measure, the richly gowned mademoiselles and the bachelors, scions of the most distinguished families, tiptoed and curtsied through the sinuous changes of the dance, to the entire approbation of the critical assemblage.
Mollie was showered with attentions and compliments, some even going as far as to hint slyly at the attentions of Roderick Barclugh. Mr. Livingston of New York saw the minuet and noticed Roderick Barclugh dancing with the daughter of the host. He turned to Charles Thomson, the Secretary of Congress, and asked:
“Mr. Thomson, who is this gentleman, Mr. Barclugh? I have heard his name, but I never saw him before. Where does he come from to us?”
Mr. Thomson, who was always very reserved, replied quietly:
“He was introduced to us by a letter from Benjamin Franklin, who in turn was asked to give him the letter by the French Monarch.”
Mr. Livingston then remarked:
“Well, the French Secretary must then know his antecedents. Ah, here is M. Marbois. We’ll ask him.”
“M. Marbois, do you know who this gentleman, Roderick Barclugh, is?” questioned Mr. Livingston.
“Yes,” replied the Secretary pleasantly. “He is the second son of Sir George Barclugh, who resided, when living, upon his estates in England. I have heard that he has been engaged in secret missions of diplomacy. But I do not know what interest brings him to Philadelphia.”
“It doesn’t matter,” continued the member of Congress. “I have understood that he is paying attentions to Miss Greydon. I was anxious to know his antecedents.”
When this conversation was taking place between the French Secretary and Mr. Livingston, General Schuyler went over to the latter gentleman and touched him on the arm. The General was deathly pale and immediately the two went to a remote part of the house and held a hurried consultation.
“Mr. Livingston,” said the General. “The news has just reached the city that General Arnold has gone over to the enemy and Major Andre, Adjutant-General of the British Army, is a prisoner in the hands of General Washington, and that our cause has just escaped a terrible calamity.”
“What!” exclaimed Livingston. “Has Arnold gone over to the enemy? And you and I had just pleaded with the Commander to give him West Point! What did he attempt to do?” questioned Livingston excitedly.
“Why, he planned to surrender West Point,” answered the General.
“Is it possible?” cried Livingston. “We must leave at once. We cannot tell what may happen, or whom to trust.”
The two members of the Committee on Military Affairs of Congress hastily found the host and gave the news to him and left for the city together.
The news soon spread throughout the house, and animated groups were collected, discussing the news.
Mollie was talking to Barclugh and Mrs. White, the Rector’s wife, when Sally Milling came up to the group and exclaimed:
“Have you heard the news that has just reached the city?”
“No, what is it?” asked the other three, almost in unison.
“Why, General Arnold has gone over to the enemy, and Major Andre is a prisoner in the hands of General Washington, and a plot has been unearthed to surrender West Point to the British!”
Roderick Barclugh stood as though stricken with paralysis. His face became ashen white. He tried to speak but his voice failed him.
Mollie Greydon and the other two ladies looked at Barclugh for an instant and then Mollie stepped toward him as she asked:
“What is the matter, Mr. Barclugh? Are you ill?”
“No, no. It is nothing,” muttered Barclugh. “You will excuse me, ladies. I had better retire.”
Roderick Barclugh went to the table where refreshments were served and after partaking of a glass of punch, he sought his hostess and Miss Mollie, then left in his carriage for his lodgings.
As soon as the Shippens heard the news they retired precipitately, for the information was too crushing to wait for any formalities.
Nothing could exceed the excitement that ran through the large and brilliant assemblage at the Greydons’. Even the music and the minuet could not keep the guests from a discussion of all the Arnold family troubles for the past two years. Everybody was so astounded that a gloom was cast over the social pleasures of the evening. At last a general leave-taking was in order and the last carriage rolled down the avenue of hemlocks at half past twelve o’clock.
When the party was over, Dr. Greydon went up to Mollie and taking her by the hands, said:
“Mollie, my child, you looked your best to-night. I felt very proud. Now, you must take your rest. The excitement of this evening has been very hard for you.”
“Very true, papa dear, but can you not let us talk over a few of the events of the evening? That is the best part of an evening affair,—to talk over what people said and what happened,” contended Mollie, when she sat down to rehearse the evening’s events in girlish fashion.
“What a pity it was that the news arrived about General Arnold just in the midst of the gayest part of the evening,” continued Mollie bubbling over with the animation of youth. “What a fine minuet Mr. Barclugh can dance! I was more than delighted! But did you see how pale he became when he heard about General Arnold? And did you see how the Shippens took the news? It was awful! Well, everybody will remember this party from the tragic episodes caused by the Arnold treason!”
“Now, there, there, Mollie, you are too much worked up. You must give yourself rest and repose for we can not tell what the morrow will bring forth in these stirring times,” insisted Dr. Greydon, as he went up to Mollie and took her by both hands and kissed her.
“Yes, Mollie, you must have rest,” reiterated her mother, as Mollie went to her and kissed her good-night.
But no sooner had Mollie departed than very serious matters presented themselves for discussion between Dr. Greydon and his wife about their only daughter.
Dr. Greydon arose and taking his wife by the hand, said in his most tender tones:
“Martha, my dear, we have astounding revelations to discuss, and I wish that you would come into my office and there go over the matter with me.”
“Very well, William,” assented Mrs. Greydon. “I hope that it is not very bad news,” she continued as she took Dr. Greydon’s arm and both went to the office in the south elevation of the quadrangle of buildings.
Dr. Greydon led the way to the office and conducted his wife to a large easy-chair, when he sat down at his desk and began to discuss the important matters on his mind.
“My dear Martha, our Segwuna returned from New York to-night and came to my office. She brought me the news about General Arnold and Major Andre. She also informed me that our Mr. Barclugh has been the secret agent of the British in Philadelphia, and has been in secret communication with General Clinton for the purpose of carrying out Arnold’s plot,—the surrender of West Point to the enemy.”
“What! Mr. Barclugh, the agent of the British!” exclaimed Mrs. Greydon.
“Yes, the agent of the British! He had offered General Arnold twenty thousand pounds sterling and a Brigadier-Generalship in the English army.”
“Oh, what perfidy,” cried Mrs. Greydon. “How does Segwuna know these things?”
“She followed Mr. Barclugh to New York and saw him with Major Andre and General Clinton. She learned much while nursing him during his case of the peste; and finally she went to New York and interviewed Major Andre, who showed his concern at what Segwuna knew of the plot.
“Segwuna brought the news of the failure of the plot to me to-night. I did not mention it because I wished to have the news confirmed and I did not wish to spoil Mollie’s party.
“Now, dear Martha, what shall I do about the affair for Mollie’s sake?”
“I would first be sure that the story of Segwuna is true. If it is true, I have no fears about what Mollie herself would say,” contended Mrs. Greydon in her practical way. “Mollie has not yet consented to marry Mr. Barclugh. She informed me so this morning. She promised Segwuna not to do so until her return.”
“God bless Segwuna!” exclaimed Dr. Greydon. “Our daughter is safe from the disgrace of this affair.”
“My advice, William,” argued Mrs. Greydon, “is to go to Mr. Barclugh and ask him if these statements are true. If he loves our daughter he will tell the truth. If he tells the truth and admits his guilt, on account of our daughter’s love for him we will save him from exposure.”
“But how will our Mollie take this affair? I believe that she loves Mr. Barclugh,” asked Dr. Greydon.
“There can be but one way for Mollie,” insisted her mother. “I will explain all to Mollie in the morning. You can see Segwuna and question her further and then we will have it decided in your office to-morrow morning.”
“You are right, Martha,” concluded Dr. Greydon. “We must not continue this discussion longer to-night,” as he offered his arm to Mrs. Greydon, and conducted her to her apartments and fondly kissed her good-night.
The next morning Segwuna met Dr. Greydon in his office at nine o’clock.
Dr. Greydon questioned the Indian maiden at length about the plot, and she told the story precisely as before.
Mollie, with evidences of severe weeping and intense mental anguish written upon every line of her face, entered her father’s office with her mother. She at once ran to Segwuna and embraced her and said:
“My Segwuna, you did all of this for me. How shall I ever repay you? How sorry I am for Mrs. Arnold. I might now have been placed in a similar position.”
“My dearest Mollie,” began Dr. Greydon tenderly. “How do you feel about Mr. Barclugh’s proposal for my daughter’s hand?”
“Father,” answered Mollie firmly, “I can never love the enemies of my country, especially those who fight her institutions by means of subterfuge and corruption. My love has been shocked. He knew my patriotism and he encouraged it; but he hoped to win me and bind me by the holy ties of marriage. My heart is broken. I can never consent, if he is an enemy.
“But, father, do not expose him. It would cost him his life and I know he loves me. Spare his life for my sake.”
These words settled the matter to the evident satisfaction of both Dr. Greydon and Segwuna.
Mollie and her mother left the office for the other part of the house, and the Doctor and Segwuna took the carriage for Philadelphia and Roderick Barclugh’s office.
Dr. Greydon walked into the office of Roderick Barclugh and confronted him when he was busy with his clerk in the outer room.
“Mr. Barclugh,” began Dr. Greydon. “May I see you privately?”
“Certainly,” replied Barclugh, as he led the way to his private office and left Segwuna in the outer room.
“I understand, sir,” said Dr. Greydon, sternly, “that you have been the secret agent of the British in our midst, you, who have asked my daughter for marriage. Now, sir, is that statement true?”
“By what authority do you make those statements, Dr. Greydon?” parried Barclugh.
“I ask you as a gentleman, Mr. Barclugh, who has extended the courtesies of his home to you, to answer a direct question.”
“But you would not ask me to incriminate myself, Dr. Greydon?” replied Barclugh hesitatingly.
“No, sir. If you are guilty, for the sake of my daughter’s former love for you, you may leave our country. If you insist on not answering I shall let you be apprehended,” insisted Dr. Greydon.
“But what proofs have you that I am concerned in this affair?” asked Barclugh.
Dr. Greydon stepped to the door and called Segwuna to their presence, as he asked her:
“Segwuna, what proof have you that Mr. Barclugh is concerned in this treason?”
Segwuna took from the inner pocket of her waist and placed in Dr. Greydon’s hands the envelope containing the letter brought to Roderick Barclugh by the Swedish fisherman.
“That is sufficient,” exclaimed Barclugh, “I am the arch-conspirator, Doctor Greydon. I am at your mercy. I have been unjust to ask your daughter in marriage. If you allow me to escape with my life, I shall return to England and teach my countrymen that Americans can not be corrupted. I will do more for the cause of your country than armies or alliances. I owe my life to you and I pledge myself to do a duty that I owe to a true American gentleman. I will try to convince my government of the justice of your cause.”
Turning to Segwuna, Barclugh said:
“You saved my life, Segwuna, and you also foiled my plot. The loss of that letter during my illness made us too cautious in dealing with Arnold. We knew that some one had the information and we were fearful of entering the American lines since some one knew our scheme.”
“It was not I,” returned Segwuna, “Mr. Barclugh, that foiled your plot. It was the Great Spirit that laid you low with the peste and put the correspondence into my hands. God hates a corruptionist.”
Barclugh fled at once upon the retirement of Segwuna and Dr. Greydon from his office. He precipitately left on the sloop of the faithful Swedes with all the ready money that he had.
He reached New York and went to General Clinton.
General Clinton withdrew from the Beekman House when the news of the execution of Major Andre reached him. He now lived at Number 1 Broadway, where he could be in constant touch with the stirring affairs of his command since the death of his beloved Andre.
Arnold came to New York and took up his quarters at the King’s Arms Tavern, Number 9 Broadway. Here he lived and entertained the belief that the British cause was invincible. He began plans to bring success to the royal arms.
He prepared and issued an address, “To the Inhabitants of America,” a long and labored article justifying his treachery. Then, a few days thereafter, he issued a proclamation entitled, “To the officers and soldiers of the Continental army who have the real interests of their country at heart and who are determined to be no longer the dupes of Congress or of France.” It was simply an offer of bribery to the Americans to desert their cause; but there were no responses. A few loyalists rallied around his standard,—those who were seeking officers’ positions in the British army. His mercenary spirit was expressed in this appeal.
In the midst of these circumstances, Roderick Barclugh arrived from Philadelphia. His first sight when he walked into the King’s Arms Tavern was that of General Arnold pacing up and down before the fireplace in the tap-room.
Arnold looked up and beheld with astonishment the tall and athletic form of Barclugh. Until now Arnold never had quaked before mortal man; but when the piercing glance of Barclugh met his gaze, a culprit shivering like a whipped dog was all that stood before Barclugh.
Had the spirit of Washington appeared in his path, Arnold could not have been more abject. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His eyes lost all power of vision and rolled nervously, as though hunted, in their sockets. Pitiable, indeed, in his moral transgression, stood the man once the pride of the patriot army, before one whose only claim to distinction was the gold that he could control.
Barclugh was amazed at Arnold’s collapse. He felt guilty and powerless, himself. The love of Mollie Greydon had saved his life; he knew that his gold could never have done so. Yet Barclugh felt that he must not relinquish his power over the traitor, so he addressed him harshly:
“You have ruined us all, Arnold. I am thankful to be here alive. The stain of Andre’s blood will always remain upon your escutcheon.”
The traitor, nervous and guilty, looked around the tap-room, and whispered into Barclugh’s ear:
“We better discuss our matters more privately.”
Arnold now led the way to his chamber and there the two faced each other.
Arnold began anxiously:
“Barclugh, have you heard of my wife and child?”
“No news, Arnold,” replied the financier.
“Well, what is to become of her? I am dying by inches from anxiety. I would be willing to give up all for her safety,” wailed the traitor.
“Cheer up, don’t whine about losses from your unfulfilled contract,” continued Barclugh.
“What! do I not even get my money?” exclaimed Arnold.
“Not a farthing more, if I can help it,” retorted the moneyed man.
“How do you make that out?” asked the General.
“Well, it’s business.”
“What’s business to do with an affair of honor?”
“An affair of honor?” queried Barclugh. “You left your honor behind when you accepted money and agreed to perform your treachery and receive the balance when the job was successfully done.”
“But you see, Barclugh, I have the agreement of Major Andre to cover just such an emergency as this,” exclaimed Arnold as he struck with exultation his breast pocket in which he had his writing signed by Andre.
“Well, that may or may not be so, Mr. Arnold. You will now have to settle your bargain made with Major Andre, with General Clinton. Major Andre is dead. I represent the men of substance and I am not at liberty to recklessly squander their money in a way that is not warranted,” contended the envoy of the Bank Governor.
“Very well, sir,” concluded Arnold, who was now aware of the cold blood of a financial agent when the deal fell through. “We shall go to General Clinton and have this matter settled. I demand that you go with me. If I am not given satisfaction for the sacrifices that I have undergone, I will publish my agreement made with Andre. The world will call you a pack of scoundrels, to deceive an honest man.”
“Scoundrels!” exclaimed Barclugh. “You better ask what your friends will say as to that.”
Arnold and Barclugh walked to the headquarters of General Clinton, Number 1 Broadway. A few steps took the two up the staircase to the front entrance and then they were ushered into the presence of the English Commander.
None of the three men was in a humor to talk very much, especially Barclugh. After an exchange of formal greetings, General Arnold commenced the discussion:
“General Clinton, I must know where I stand in my financial matters and in my official position before Mr. Barclugh leaves.
“Of course, you know I promised to turn over West Point to your command and my compensation was to have been twenty thousand pounds sterling and a commission as Brigadier-General in the British army, but the fortunes of war have turned against us. I am here under your protection with nothing to insure my recompense except my compact with Major Andre.
“General Clinton, shall I receive the recompense due me or shall I be treated with ingratitude such as I have received from the Colonial Congress?”
“General Arnold,” replied Sir Henry Clinton, “His Majesty’s government certainly shall not dishonor its obligations, but we cannot be asked to pay the full amount that was promised when the transaction was entered into. For those conditions depended upon the success of your enterprise. We shall have to limit the payment to ten thousand pounds sterling, less what has been advanced to you by Mr. Barclugh. Mr. Barclugh has already advanced you about four thousand pounds, so that your balance will be about six thousand pounds sterling.
“You will receive a commission of Brvt. Brig. General and its regular pay.
“But, General Arnold, do you believe that we can win our cause now that we have failed in our enterprise against West Point?”
“There can be no question in my mind,” returned Arnold, now that he had been assured of his allowance and his commission. “We can raise a force and take West Point by regular attacks. I shall prepare plans and submit them to you for approval.
“Then,” continued Arnold, “the Colonies can not hold out against the resources of Great Britain. We must fight until the tide of victory turns our way. We cannot afford to lose. We must win.”
“What do you think about the situation, Mr. Barclugh?” asked General Clinton, turning to the special agent of His Majesty’s government, graciously.
Barclugh drew himself up to his full height and said bitterly, for he felt that both of the men before him had made a mess of his plans:
“Gentlemen, if you want my candid opinion, I am forced to say that you will not conquer the American Colonists if you fight from now until doomsday. They are simple, fearless people, liberty-loving and self-sacrificing. They have no need of money. They live next to nature and fight and exist wholly within their own resources.
“My mission to the Colonies has been made utterly unsuccessful since our plot failed. One cannot understand the temper of the people until he has lived among them as I have. The mothers and maidens, as well as the men, are fighting for their land. There may be a few malcontents among them, like our new friend here (pointing over his shoulder with his thumb toward Arnold), but they are only loud talkers and boasters, and carry no weight.”
Arnold scowled at Barclugh, and General Clinton’s ire began to gather force when the color mounted into his thick neck and his wine-flushed face, as he exclaimed:
“What! do you mean to tell me, sir, that His Majesty’s armies can never conquer the Colonies? Impossible! Sir, impossible!”
“That’s what I mean,” responded Barclugh coolly.
“Do you mean to imply, sir, that the forces under the command of General and Sir Henry Clinton, K. B., are not able to carry out the King’s commands?” demanded General Clinton.
“I mean,” replied Barclugh dryly, “that both General and Sir Henry Clinton, K. B., are very much deluded personages as to the task before them.”
General Clinton now turned and bowed to Roderick Barclugh and, with lips firmly compressed, said:
“Mr. Barclugh, I have done with your information. I thank you.”
Then Sir Henry remarked as he took Arnold’s arm in his own:
“General Arnold, we better retire.”
The two generals, in oppressive silence, now turned their backs on Barclugh and stalked out of the room.
Barclugh stood and watched their departure. He dropped his head in silent reflection. Raising his eyes, the pent-up fire of an indignant soul shone out of them. He said:
“Let them go! The hirelings of kingly power as I have been! They plan to flatter the King and consider as a reward only the gold that they receive.
“It is well that kings have gold for their use. For the bones that they throw to their dogs would soon play out, unless the dry bones that are rattled scare the whelps.
“My mission has failed! Why? The Americans are superior to the system that makes hirelings of us all. No system of finance affects them. They refused my gold. Mutual trust in each other, as men, made their pieces of commissary paper as useful as my gold. Of all the men that I met, Arnold was the only one that I could convince with an Englishman’s argument, pounds sterling. American manhood is a product of American soil. It has grown out of the forests and the streams. It is incorruptible. If its ideals are lost in the greed for gold, the debased have to flee America and seek an asylum, like Arnold, in the bosom of the Englishman where pounds sterling can outweigh character and manhood.
“I return to England. I give them back their accursed gold, and show them that though Englishmen may think like Warren Hastings, that the souls of men are expressed in pounds sterling according to their stations, yet in one place in this world manhood stands above guineas, and AMERICAN MANHOOD HAS NOT ITS PRICE!”
We now come to the home affairs of Barclugh. He returned to England after his interview in New York.
Arnold was not successful in his enterprises after his failure to surrender West Point. He ravaged towns in Connecticut and in Virginia, as a British Brigadier, with fiendish delight, and history tells us that he led anything but a happy existence in England; and at last, died in seclusion.
“Unwept, unhonored and unsung.”
Poor Andre! He was the victim of the ambition of youth. His superiors depended on his ability to do extraordinary things; however, his nature was too guileless to cope with the daring of a man like Arnold. He ought never to have gone into the American lines. To have met Arnold secretly again at their rendezvous would have been an easy matter. His superior, Clinton, gave him explicit instructions not to enter the American outposts; but Arnold’s headlong rashness led him into danger and he paid the penalty with his life.
Lord Carlisle, the British Commissioner, returned to England and history tells us that he became Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland and sank into oblivion. He and George Selwyn were the prime movers in the plot, the purpose of which was to get funds from government with which to square the losses of Fox at the gaming-table.
Barclugh, however, though the main actor in the plot to hold America within the sphere of kingly and aristocratical government, was, by his actual experience among the Americans of all classes, convinced that their position was invincible on the principles of free and representative government. He could see that even though the British were to get the seaports along the Atlantic and hold them, the sturdy pioneers would retire into the mountains and fight until exterminated. Then the French Coalition gave England an enemy in the front and rear. He could see the end. He thought best to conclude the war, and, at least, save the Canadas to the mother country.
Convinced with these conclusions he went to Mr. Prince, the Governor of the Bank of England, and made his report. The principal arguments were:
“In the eight years of the war the population increased nearly one million souls.
“The British and Hessian soldiery desert to take up free homes on the new lands of America.
“The land is productive of every necessity in abundance.
“The Americans leave their plows to fight one day and then return to them, to provide subsistence the next.
“Money appeals to very few of them. None except a few merchants in the seaports care for money. Merchandise receipts issued by the government pass as legal tender.
“Their depreciated currency does not affect them. They have no banks. They all have faith in their cause and in their ability to redeem their obligations when the war ends. Therefore, each one stands ready to sacrifice his life and his substance for his principles.”
When Mr. Prince received these tidings he knew that they were reliable and he merely concluded:
“The war must stop before we lose all. But,” he prophesied, “in less than one hundred years hence, England will subdue the Americans with her system of finance and her system of aristocratic society. An Englishman’s title will not then go begging in America.”
When Lord George Germaine received the report from the Governor of the Bank of England and Lord North received it, and, at last, the King—the inner circles of government were astounded.
Following closely upon these events came the news of Cornwallis’s surrender, and Lord North made his famous exclamation:
“O God! It is all over!”
Mollie Greydon could not arise on the morning after the interview between her father and Roderick Barclugh. She sank into a low fever and for two months she lingered between life and death while being nursed by her faithful friend, Segwuna. In her delirium she talked about the Assembly at the French Ministers and oft repeated:
“The dance is the language of love.”
Then she would see the horses galloping down the road beside the Delaware where she outdistanced Roderick Barclugh on her thoroughbred, “Prince.”
She would pass her hand over the bed-covering and pat it with such a loving and gentle touch as she said:
“Noble Prince, noble Prince, you are such a fine horse, Prince. If he does not love me, you do, don’t you, Prince?
“You were naughty, Prince, to run away from him that day. If I had only let him say what was in his heart that day, I would have been so happy. Yes, I would have been so happy! so happy!” And Mollie went to sleep from mere exhaustion.
Segwuna and Mollie’s mother were seated beside her canopied bed and their eyes filled with tears as they watched the darling of their hearts suffering such anguish. It can come to one only once in a lifetime.
Many times Doctor Greydon and Mrs. Greydon held lengthy consultations when the disease took its insidious hold on the now wasted frame of their beautiful daughter. It was such a delicate thread that held all that was dear to them on earth. The image of little Mollie, their only darling child, as she gladdened their souls with her childish prattle passed through their minds. For hours at a time, they would sit and watch silently at the bedside and in silence pray to the One that knows the hearts of all: “to deliver from our midst the Dread Messenger that hovers over our child.”
Mrs. Greydon would sometimes tearfully say: “William, maybe it was all for the best that Mr. Barclugh came to us, for God can send him back as a messenger from our Colonies and tell the truth to our cousins beyond the sea. That is what Segwuna says and she is almost endowed with the intelligence of the supernatural.”
“Yes, yes, my dear, if Mr. Barclugh is the gentleman that I think he will tell the truth, and how our child would rejoice in any good that he could do for our country. I would give almost any personal sacrifice if I could restore my little Mollie to her strength. Yes, I would give up my own life for hers,” and the great, strong patriot turned his head and his voice choked and the noble heart of the man was overcome with his emotions.
The long days and the longer nights of the vigil for the dear one dragged along and along and the father and the mother seemed to age perceptibly under the strain. But Segwuna never lost her hope. She would say in her sweet voice:
“The Great Spirit of Segwuna’s fathers will watch over our little one and bless her days with happiness.”
The malady had its course and one morning Mollie awoke and said in a whisper, for she was very weak:
“Mama, where have I been?”
“You have been sleeping sweetly, my dear,” replied the mother softly:
“Oh, I had such a sweet dream. I saw his face, and he looked at me with such kindly eyes,” came from Mollie as though an angel were speaking, and she closed her eyes and smiled as though she were an infant again.
“God be praised,” whispered her mother. “My darling girl may be saved.”
Now the days seemed brighter and the nights shorter. Mollie began to gather strength. In a week she was able to see her father and talk to him for five minutes while she held his hand in hers.
In three weeks she was able to drive in the carriage on mild days. But her heart seemed heavy. She watched for the mail. She thought that he could not have given her up without a word. Weeks grew into months and the spring came and the summer passed yet no word from the one she knew was dearer to her than life.
But on a bright day in October, nearly a year from the time when Mollie was taken ill, a large, brawny man approached the portico where Mollie was seated, and raising his hat, he asked:
“Is this Dorminghurst?”
“Yes,” replied Mollie.
“I have a letter here for Miss Greydon.” And the hardened hand of the man placed a packet in Mollie’s fingers.
“Why, it is from Mr. Barclugh!” exclaimed Mollie.
“Where did you get it, sir?” asked Mollie.
“I brought it from the inlet on the Jersey coast. It came from New York by sloop,” answered the man, who was one of the fishermen Barclugh had employed when he fled.
“Are there any fees, sir?”
“None whatever. I was charged to deliver it into the hands of Miss Mollie Greydon. I have done so and my duty ends. Good day. I must return,” was the short and unceremonious message of the boatman and he left as mysteriously as he came.
But here it was, the word from Roderick Barclugh at last: A large package emblazoned with a crest and the motto standing out in strong contrast:
“Post Nubes Lux”
Mollie opened it with nervous hand and she gazed at the bold handwriting of Roderick Barclugh with an anxious face.
Devon Court, Devonshire,
August 17, 178—“My dear Madam:
“True to my pledge to your honored father I have changed my attitude toward the Colonies. Mostly from your precious lips I have learned to love your country and the principles that they are struggling to maintain. I am happy to inform you that the Colonies will very soon be free and independent States. The report that I have made to my superiors is enclosed and the conclusion has been made according to the information in my report that a war of extermination is impracticable and that England will honor the Colonies to establish which she has contributed the best blood in her realm and will wish them Godspeed.
“Now as to my part in the unfortunate drama of Arnold’s treason I can only say: ‘Forget it and forgive me.’
“If it had succeeded my only desire was to share with you the honors that I might have claimed.
“My dear Madam, I love you with all my soul. Your affection is more to me than my country, my title, or even my life. If you would only consent to be my wife I will go whithersoever thou sayest or do whatsoever thou biddest. Be mine and we will be forever happy.
“Since my return to England my older brother has died and the title has fallen to me. My fortune is now ample and we can live quietly on our estates. The world has little to attract me outside of domestic happiness.
“With the sentiments that I have always held in my heart, and which no worldly conditions can change, believe me to be
“With sentiments of my tenderest love, your faithful and obedient servant,
“Roderick Barclugh.
“Miss Mollie Greydon,
Dorminghurst, Penn., N. A.”
As the motto on Barclugh’s seal says, “After darkness there is light,” so Mollie read and re-read his sweet words with increasing delight. Her soul was athirst for what he said. But what would papa say?
After many family councils in the Doctor’s office, at last Doctor Greydon gave his consent under one condition, which was: that Roderick Barclugh would come to America and take the ups and downs of a common American and rear his family as free American citizens.
Mollie wrote her lover after she had time to consider the meaning of it all, as follows:
Dorminghurst,
October 30, 178—“My dear Mr. Barclugh:
“I regret that my words can not properly convey my sentiments in support of your noble acts in giving justice to our struggling Colonies. My father feels grateful to you for what you have done.
“As to the part that you took in the drama of war, our Segwuna says that you were a messenger sent by the Great Spirit to learn the truth about our people and to convey it across the sea.
“My feelings for you have always been of the tenderest nature and I know that I could love and honor you as your noble spirit deserves.
“There is only one consideration that I can ask before I pledge you my honor and my life:
“My people left England to escape the perfidy of aristocratical distinctions in society. If you were plain Roderick Barclugh and could come and live our simple life in America, my heart would rejoice to be your bride. But for me to return to England, a titled person, I would be sacrificing the principles of three generations of my forefathers and I should always feel guilty of treachery to my dearest family ties. Thus it would be a mistake to try to make me happy and we had better bide apart although it would break my heart.
“But if you could come to America and we should be wedded simply as Roderick Barclugh and Mollie Greydon my heart would rejoice and I am sure God would prosper us in our journey through life.
“With my tenderest affection and esteem,
“As ever yours,
“Mollie Greydon.“Sir Roderick Barclugh, Bart,
“Devon House,
“Devonshire, England.”
In the course of two months, Sir Roderick Barclugh received the answer that Mollie penned, and when he read its contents, he kissed the paper that held the precious words, and as soon as the war closed, after Cornwallis’s surrender, he immediately took steps to transfer his baronetcy to his next of kin and made all arrangements to wed Mollie Greydon in the following spring.
He did not forget to do justice to Mrs. Arnold and her children before he left England or resigned his title.
He secured a pension for Mrs. Arnold of three hundred pounds sterling yearly and one hundred pounds yearly for each of Arnold’s children. He felt the responsibility for Arnold’s rash deed to a very great degree.
In the balmy days of June following, the old mansion of Dorminghurst was gay with the prospects of the wedding of its jewel.
The old hemlocks seemed greener than ever and the lover’s walk and the old mill had its attractions for Mollie and Roderick in the prenuptial days.
The wedding was celebrated in high pomp (for the Greydons had practically gone back to the established church) by the Reverend Mr. White, the Chaplain of Congress.
The war was over and the people were united. The drama of the strife was past. Peace and its pursuits held sway.
Roderick Barclugh and his bride emigrated over the Alleghanies and took up lands in the blue-grass region of Kentucky, where they lived in happiness and contentment, rearing a large family.
Their love for fine horses brought the line of thoroughbreds that distinguishes the soil of the State of “the dark and bloody ground.”
The descendants of the Barclughs have spread throughout the valleys of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and they have ever shone in the councils of our nation, being noted for their integrity, loyalty and patriotism.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.