THE WOMAN’S PART
_You no doubt are acquainted with the great attention and tenderness
shown my son at Camden by all the British officers that he has seen,
and the Gentlemen of the Faculty, as well as the maternal kindness of
Mrs. Clay._
CORRESPONDENCE OF MRS. PINKNEY.
I was at Headquarters soon after nine in the morning. There are joints
in the armor of all, the great have their bowels, and I have no doubt
that had he told the truth, my lord would have given much to avoid me
and my petition. But he did not try to do so, and in the spirit which
now inspired me, I recognised the law under which we all lay. He, I, the
man who must suffer, all moved in the clutch of remorseless duty, all
were forced on by the mind that over-rode the body and its preferences.
Willing or unwilling, he met me with much kindness. “What is it,
Craven?” he said. “But I fear, I very much fear that I know your
errand.”
“If you could see me alone, my lord?” I said.
“Certainly I will.” He nodded to Haldane and in a moment we were left
together.
I told him the story, all the story; and he heard me with sympathy. I
have said that he was a man of my age, not yet thirty, but authority had
given him force and decision, and the patience that goes with those
qualities. “In Lord Cornwallis’s absence, it lies with you, my lord,” I
concluded, when I had told my tale, “to confirm the finding and
sentence. The man’s life is forfeit, I cannot deny it. I do not attempt
to say otherwise. But the circumstances are such—he gave me my life, I
am taking his—that I am compelled to put forward my own services and
implore on my own account what I cannot ask, my lord, on his. If he were
confined in the West Indies, for the duration of the war, or were sent
to England—”
He stopped me. “My dear Craven, the thing is impossible,” he said
gently. “Impossible! You must see that for yourself. In another man’s
case you would see it. I should be unworthy of command, unworthy of the
post I hold, unworthy of the obedience of the men whose lives are in my
hands, if I listened to you! Frankly, I could not hold up my head if I
did this. And that is not all,” he continued in a firmer tone. “I have
news, by express this moment. Wemyss’s force has been repulsed, badly
repulsed near Fishdam. He is wounded and a prisoner. The account that we
have is confused, but it is certain that the enemy knew that the attack
was coming and awaited it a gunshot behind their campfires; so that when
our poor lads ran in they came under a heavy fire from the woods. I have
not a doubt, therefore, that this man, Wilmer, had a confederate in the
camp, and short as his time was, contrived to pass on tidings of the
change of date.”
It was a home blow and I reeled under it. I had had little hope before;
I had none now. Still I had made up my mind as to my duty, and I strove
afresh to move him. He listened for a moment. Then he cut me short.
“No!” he replied, more curtly, “No! you have no case. The punishment of
a spy is known, fixed, unalterable, Craven. It was carried out in the
case of Major André, a hard, an extreme case. But it was carried out.
This is a flagrant case. You ask an impossibility, man, and you ought to
know it!”
“Then I will trouble your lordship for one moment only,” I said. “I have
a duty to the King—I have discharged it by informing against Captain
Wilmer; I have discharged it at great cost to myself. But I have a duty,
also, to the man who saved my life at the price, as it has turned out,
of his own! That duty I have not discharged until I have done all that
it is in my power to do to save him. May I remind your lordship that my
father has supported the government steadily and consistently in the
House with two votes, and has never sought a return in place or pension.
Were he here, I will answer for it, that he would not only indorse the
request I make that this man’s life be spared, but that he would
consider its allowance a full return for all his services in the past.”
“And, by God!” Rawdon replied, striking the table with his hand, “I
would not grant that request, no, not if Lord North himself endorsed it,
Major Craven. In his Excellency’s absence I command here, mine is the
responsibility! I will not make that responsibility immeasurably more
heavy, sir, by stooping to a weakness which must rob me, and rightly rob
me, of the confidence of every soldier in the camp. I should deserve to
be shot, if I did so! There, I have been patient, Craven—I have been
patient because I know your position. I have given you a good hearing,
but I can hear no more. The thing you ask is impossible. The man must
suffer.”
“Then, my lord,” I replied, “I am compelled to take the only other step
open to me. Since neither my own services nor my father’s are thought to
be sufficient to entitle me to a thing which I have so much at heart, I
beg leave to resign his Majesty’s commission. Here is my sword, my lord,
and I no longer consider myself—”
“Stop!” he replied. “This is nonsense. D—d nonsense!” he continued
angrily, “I’ll not allow you to resign. Take up your sword, Major
Craven, or by G—d, I’ll put you under arrest!”
“You can do that, my lord,” I said, “if you please. I, for my part
believe that I am only doing what honor requires of me.” And I turned on
my heel, and, though he called me back, I went straight out of the room
leaving my sword on the table. I believe the act was irregular, but it
was the only way in which I could bear witness to the strength of my
feelings.
I had taken in doing this what many would consider a foolish step; but I
knew, too, that nothing short of this would acquit me in my own mind;
and as I left the house I was at no pains to defend the step to myself.
Haldane and the others, who were sitting under the trees before the
door, looked at me as I came out, but taking the hint from my face, they
let me pass without speech. Haldane went in immediately, and thinking
that he might be ordered to carry out the Chief’s threat, I moved away
down the street. Not that I cared whether I were placed under arrest or
no; I was indifferent. But to remain before the house might be taken for
a flouting of authority not in the best taste and beyond what I
intended.
I had tried all that I could, and I had failed. There remained only one
thing which I could do for Wilmer. I must see him. He might have
something to say, some message to leave, some service I could perform at
the last. I looked along the village street with its thronged roadway
and its neat white houses peeping through foliage that blew to and fro
tempestuously. The dust flew, and the flag above Headquarters leapt
against its staff, for the morning though it was not cold was windy and
overcast. As I looked down the road my eyes stopped at the tavern where
Webster had his billet. It was nearly—not quite—opposite the house in
which I knew that Wilmer was confined; and as I gazed, thinking somberly
of the man whose fate had become bound up with mine, and whose last
hours were passing so quickly, I saw a negro, bearing something covered
with a cloth, go across the road from the tavern to the house. I guessed
that he was taking Wilmer’s meal to him and I turned the other way. A
later hour would suit my purpose better. We, English, whatever our
faults may be, bear little rancor, and I had no doubt that even if I
were put under arrest, I should be allowed to see the prisoner.
I passed idly along the street in the direction of Paton’s quarters. On
either hand were loungers perched on the garden fences or leaning
against them. The roadway was crowded with forage wagons driven by negro
teamsters, with carts from the country laden with fruit and vegetables,
with fatigue-parties passing at the double. Troopers rode by me in the
green of the Legion or the blue of the Dragoons and everywhere were
watchful natives and grinning blacks and women in sun-bonnets whose eyes
little escaped. But my thoughts were elsewhere and my eyes roved over
the scene and saw nothing, until my feet had borne me a good part of the
way to Paton’s.
Then I saw her.
She and a negro were standing beside two horses from which they had just
dismounted. A little circle of loiterers and busybodies had gathered
round them and were eyeing them curiously and questioning them. The
horses, jaded and over-ridden, hung their heads, and blew out their
nostrils. The black, scared by his surroundings, glanced fearfully
hither and thither—it was clear that he felt himself to be in the
enemy’s camp. But Constantia showed no sign of fear, or of anything but
fatigue. Her eyes travelled gravely round the circle, questioned,
challenged, met admiration with pride. And yet—and yet, along with the
grief and despair that reigned in her breast—that must have reigned
there!—there must have lurked, also, some seed of woman’s weakness; for
as her eyes, in leaping a gap in the circle, met mine and held them—and
held them, so that for a moment I ceased to breathe—I felt her whole
soul travel to me in appeal.
One thing was clear to me at once: that as yet she did not know the part
I had played. For had she known it, her eyes instead of meeting mine
would have shunned me, as if I had been the plague.
And that gave me courage. Heedless for the moment of what might ensue,
or of what she must eventually learn, I pushed my way through the men, I
uncovered, I reached her side. Then, on a nearer view, I saw the change
that sorrow and fatigue had wrought in her. She was white as paper, and
against the white her hair hung in black clinging masses on her cheeks.
Her eyes shone out of dark circles, and her homespun habit was splashed
with the mud of many leagues. With all this, I was able to address her,
encouraged by her look, as simply as if I had parted from her an hour
before—as if I had expected her and knew her plans. “My quarters are
near here,” I said. “I will take you to them,” I added. That was all.
“Tell him,” she answered, with a glance at her attendant. She spoke as
if, with all her courage, she had hardly strength to utter the words.
I did so, and the idlers about us, noting my rank, fell back. The crowd
broke up. Tom—it was he—led the horses on. We followed, both silent.
Forty yards brought us to the door of Paton’s house.
When we were inside, “Will you give me some wine?” she said.
I looked for the wine and as I did so, I was aware of Paton escaping
from the room with a face of dismay. He recognized her, of course, but I
had other things to do than to think of him. I found some Madeira and
filled a large glass and gave it to her. She took a piece of bread from
her pocket and ate a mouthful or two with the wine, sitting the while on
a box with her eyes fixed on vacancy.
I have written down all that she said; and for my part I stood beside
her, not venturing a word. The knowledge that she must presently learn
all, and in particular must learn that it was I who had done this, I who
had put the halter round her father’s neck, paralyzed my tongue. When
she should have learned all, I could serve her no longer, I could do no
more for her. It was not for me that her eyes would then seek, nor from
my hand that she would take wine.
She set down the glass. “You will take me to Lord Rawdon,” she said.
I don’t know whether I had foreseen this; but at any rate I took it as a
matter of course and made no demur. I suppose Paton heard her also,
wherever he was, for immediately I found him at my elbow. “I’ll go on,”
he muttered in my ear. “I’ll arrange it. But it’s the devil, it’s the
very devil!”
He did not explain himself, but I knew that he meant it was hard,
cruelly hard on us! As for her, she seemed to be unconscious of his
presence.
When he had had five minutes start we set out. Already it had gone
abroad who my companion was, as such things will spread in a camp, and a
curious crowd stood waiting before the door; a crowd that in the
circumstances—for Wemyss’s check was no longer a secret—could not but be
hostile to Wilmer. But when she appeared, looking so proud and pale and
composed—not even the wine had brought the faintest color to her
cheeks—it was to the credit of our people that there was not a man who
did not stand to attention and salute. Not a gibe or a taunt was heard,
and I believe that the looks that followed us as we proceeded along the
street, were laden with a rough but understanding pity.
Halfway she spoke to me, looking not at me but steadily to the front.
“At what hour,” she asked with a shiver which she could not restrain,
“is it to be?”
“Four o’clock,” I replied.
“And it is now?”
“Ten.”
A moment later, “I must see my lord alone,” she said.
“Yes, I understand,” I replied, and so occupied with the matter was I
that, a moment later, unconscious of what I was doing, I met with a
stony stare the astonished gaze of the Brigadier, who was riding by and
drew to the side of the road as if he made way for a procession. “I will
try to arrange it,” I continued with dry lips. “I have seen Lord Rawdon
this morning. It was useless.” Then, “You mustn’t hope,” I muttered.
“Don’t!”
She did not answer.
Outside Headquarters officers were loitering in a greater number than
usual, drawn thither by the news of Wemyss’s defeat. I suppose that
Paton had passed the word to them, as he went by, for those who were
seated rose as we passed between them. Paton himself stood inside the
door, talking urgently to Haldane whom he had taken by the button, and
who reflected to perfection his face of dismay.
“This lady is Captain Wilmer’s daughter,” I said, as we came up to them.
“She desires to see Lord Rawdon.”
Haldane seemed to have a difficulty in speaking. When he did, “His
lordship will see her,” he said, looking not at her but at me. “He
considers it to be his duty to do so, if the lady desires it. But I am
ordered to say that she must draw no hope from the fact, Major Craven. I
am instructed to impress upon her that an interview can do no good. If
after that she still desires to see his lordship—”
Constantia bowed her head.
“You understand, Madam?” Haldane persisted. “You still desire it—in face
of what I have said?”
She bent her head again. He turned on his heel, opened the door behind
him and signed to her to enter the room. Then he closed the door upon
her. By common consent we moved away and went outside. “Poor beggar!”
Haldane muttered. “I wouldn’t be in his shoes at this moment for all his
pay and appointments. Hanged if I would!” Then, “Curse the war, I say!”
“I say the same!” Paton replied, and twitching the other’s sleeve he
drew him aside. They encountered and turned back some men who were
moving towards us—I have no doubt to learn what was on foot.
I took my seat on the most remote bench on the left of the door, and
apart from the crowd; and I waited. How long? I cannot say. I had no
hope that the girl would succeed; I was in no suspense on that account.
All my anxiety centered in another matter. When she came out she would
have heard all from Rawdon. She would have learned the truth and my part
in the story. Between them the facts must come out; they could not be
hid. And then she would stand alone, quite alone in this strange camp,
with four o’clock before her. How would she survive it? What would
become of her? The sweat stood on my brow. I waited—waited, knowing that
that must be the end of it.
I felt that I should be aware of her knowledge as soon as I saw her. She
would feel by instinct where I had placed myself, and she would turn the
other way. Or perhaps she would look at me once, and the horror in her
eyes would wither me. So far there had been a strange mingling of sweet
and bitter in the confidence which she had placed in me, in the way in
which she had turned to me, trusted me, leant on me. But when she came
out, knowing all, there would be an end of that.
Unheeding, I watched the traffic of the camp pass before me. I saw
Carroll go by, and the officer who had presided at the court martial.
Then Tom, the negro, passed, chattering in the company of two other
blacks, one of them a teamster. Apparently he had plucked up courage and
had found companions. They went towards the tavern. Next the
Provost-Marshal appeared; he came towards us, but was waylaid by Haldane
and Paton who entered into a heated argument with him—not far from me
but just out of earshot. He seemed hard to persuade about something; he
glanced my way, argued, hesitated. Finally he yielded and turned away,
flinging a sharp sentence over his shoulder. Paton replied, there was a
distant rejoinder. The Marshal disappeared down the road, shrugging his
shoulders, as if he disclaimed—something.
A man near me laughed. Another said that Paton would get on.
The latter made an angry answer, looking at me. I did not understand. I
was waiting. Would she never come? Was it possible that he was listening
to her? That he would—
Here was the Provost-Marshal returning anew. Apparently he had thought
better of it, for his face was hard with purpose. But again Haldane and
Paton met him. They assailed him, argued with him, almost buffeted him;
finally they took him by the arms, turned him about, and marched him
off. A ripple of laughter ran along the benches. “As good as a play!”
some one said. I did not understand. Surely she must come soon.
Yes, she was coming at last. I caught the tinkle of a hand-bell, the
sentry stood at attention, Haldane hurried into the house. I rose.
She came out and, thank God, she did not know. She did not know, for her
eyes sought mine, she turned towards me. She even gave me a pitiful
shadow of a smile, as if, after wading through deep waters, she saw land
ahead. I went to her. The men about us rose and remained standing as we
walked away together. She turned in the direction of my quarters.
I did not dare to question her and we had gone some distance before she
broke the silence. Then she told me, still looking straight before her
and speaking with the same unnatural calm, that Lord Rawdon had respited
the sentence for twenty-four hours to enable her to carry an appeal to
Lord Cornwallis. But that he had not given her the smallest hope that
the sentence would be altered. He had impressed this upon her almost
harshly.
“But His Excellency is at Charles Town!” I protested, dumbfounded by
this suggestion of the impossible. “You cannot go to Charles Town, and
return in twenty-four hours!”
“He is at the Santee High Hills,” she answered. Her tone implied that
she had known this and had not learned it from Lord Rawdon. Then in a
dry hard voice she explained that she was to be allowed to see her
father at three o’clock. She would start an hour later.
“For the High Hills?”
“Yes.”
“But you will die of fatigue,” I cried. “If you are to do this you must
rest and eat.” I knew that she had ridden sixty miles in the last
thirty-six hours and had done it under the stress of intense emotion.
She assented, saying meekly that she would do as I thought best. Then,
as we entered, “You will come with me?” she said. And with that she
turned to me, and looked at me with something of the old challenge in
her eyes, looked as one not asking a favor, so much as demanding a
right. Or, if the look did not mean that I was unable to say what it
meant, beyond this, that it gave me a sort of shock. It was as if she
had shown a different face for a moment. Had she known the truth, then
she might have looked at me in such a fashion. But in that case she
would not have asked me to go with her, I was sure of that.
Still the look was disturbing, and I hesitated. I reflected that her
father would tell her the truth; that before four o’clock she would
learn all. In the meantime, however, I could be of use to her, I could
save her from some trials. And so “Certainly I will go,” I said, “if you
wish it. If you still wish it, when the time comes.”
“Thank you,” she answered wearily. “I do wish it—and you owe us as much
as that.”
“I owe you—”
She stopped me, raising her hand. “I cannot take Tom,” she continued,
“for reasons. And the horses? Will you arrange about them? I am—I am
very tired.” She turned her back on me, and with a weary sigh she sat
down.
I told her that I would do everything and see to everything, and I
hastened away to find the woman on whom we were quartered. I had a meal
prepared, and Paton’s room made ready, and water brought and brushes and
soap. To do this, to do anything relieved my pent-up feelings, yet while
I went about the task, the look that she had given me, when she had
asked me to go with her, haunted me. What did it mean? It had impressed
itself unpleasantly upon me as at variance with the rest of her conduct,
with her confidence, her docility, her dependence on me. For in other
matters she had turned to me as a helpless child might turn; and though
her acts proved that she had a course of action marked out, and was
following that course, her manner would have appealed to a heart of
stone.
Presently I was aware of Paton looking in to the room with the same
scared face. He beckoned me to him. “You will want horses, won’t you?”
he whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
“How many?”
“Two,” I said. “Good ones.”
“I’ll arrange it,” he answered. “Leave it to me and stay where you are.
At what time?”
“Four,” I said.
He went away. The next to appear was Tom, who talked with his mistress
for some minutes while I was above stairs, making ready for the journey.
Presently he departed. By that time the hasty meal I had ordered was
laid and I induced her to sit down to it, while I waited on her. Need I
say that then, more than ever, the strangeness of the relations between
us came home to me? That she should be here, in my room, in my care,
eating an ordinary meal while I attended on her, handed her this or
that, and caught now and again the sad smile with which she thanked
me—could anything exceed the marvel of it? Her trust in me, the intimacy
of it, the silence—for she rarely spoke—all increased the air of
unreality; an unreality so great that when the meal was finished and she
went to Paton’s room to lie down and rest, it had scarcely seemed out of
the question had I gone in with her, covered her, and tucked her up!
After that, through three hours of stillness and silence I kept guard in
the outer room, staring at the door behind which she lay; and love and
pity choked me, and swelled my heart to bursting. How was she suffering!
How was she doomed to suffer! What a night and a day were before her!
What horror, what despair! For her father was all the world to her. He
was all that she had. I could only pray that the exertions she was
making, the fatigue that she was enduring, the pains of endless journeys
would dull the shock when it came, and that she would not be able to
feel or to suffer or to hate as at other times.
I believe that during these hours Paton kept guard outside, and warned
off the curious. For no one came near us, and all the sounds of the camp
seemed dull and distant and we two alone in the world, until a little
before three o’clock. Then Tom returned. I had made a note that he must
be kept at hand, since she would need him to go with her in my place
when she knew all—as she must know all after she had seen her father.
I cautioned him as to this, but the man demurred. “Marse, I’m feared ter
do it,” he said, showing the whites of his eyes in his earnestness.
“Madam ’Stantia, she ordered me ter stay yer. En I’m tired, Marse. I’m
en ole nigger en dis jurney’s shuk me. Fer sho’ it has.”
“But you rogue, your mistress!”
“I ’bliged ter stay, Marse,” he repeated doggedly. “Dis nigger’s mighty
tired.”
I should have insisted, but the girl had heard his voice and summoned
him. She opened her door and he went into the inner room. They talked
there for some minutes, while I fretted over this new difficulty.
Presently the black came out but she still remained within, and did not
follow him for five long minutes. When she came I saw a change in her.
Her eyes were bright, and each white cheek had its scarlet patch. She
looked like a person in a fever, or on the edge of delirium. What the
wine had not done, something else had effected.
“Tom had better be ready to ride with us,” I said.
“No,” she answered. “It will not be necessary. I wish him to stay here.”
She spoke with so much decision that I could not contest the point, and
we set off towards Wilmer’s prison. All that I remember of our progress
is that once we had to stand aside while a wing of the 23rd marched by;
and that once we ran into a knot of blacks in front of the store. They
were drunk and to my amazement refused to make way for us. My one arm
did not avail much, but a couple of sergeants who were passing on the
other side of the way crossed over and laying their canes about the
rogues’ shoulders, sent them flying down the road. I thanked the two,
they saluted the lady, and we went on.
That is all that I remember of our seven or eight minutes walk. My mind
was bent on the old question—what she would do when she learned my part
in the matter. Would she take Tom—doubtless with a little delay we could
find him? Or would she travel alone, riding the thirty-five miles, many
of them after night-fall, unaccompanied? Or—or what would she do? Then,
and all the long minutes during which she was with her father in the
house opposite the tavern—where a sentry at the front and back declared
the importance of the prisoner—I turned this question over and over and
inside and out. Webster’s quarters were at the tavern, a long low
straggling building, set on a corner, with two fronts; and I might have
entered and waited there. But nothing was farther from my mind. The
thought of company, of the camp chatter, was abominable to me; and I
paced up and down in a solitude which a glance at my face was enough to
preserve.
She came out at last when my back was turned, and she reached my elbow
unseen. “I am late,” she said. “We should be on horseback by this time,
Major Craven. Let us lose no time, if you please.”
Surprised, I muttered assent, and I stole a look at her. Her eyes were
bright, but with excitement not with tears. The patches of scarlet on
her cheeks were more marked. I had expected to see her broken and pale
with weeping; instead she was tense, borne up by the fever of some
secret hope, more beautiful than I had ever seen her, more alive, more
alert.
As for me I was now convinced that she knew all. Nay, enlightened at
last, I saw that she must have known all from the start. Had she not
foreseen that my coming boded ill? Had she not done all in her power to
keep me at the Bluff? Had she not on that last evening strained all to
detain me? Yes, she had known; and only my obtuseness, only the
astonishing way in which she had placed herself in my hands and made use
of me, had blinded me to the truth.
And plainly, she was content to go with me and to use me still. I might
fancy if I chose, that she forgave me, but I did not dare to think so.
There was a hardness in her eyes, a challenge in her voice, a reserve in
her bearing as she walked beside me, silent and proud, that I
misdoubted. And how could she forgive me? To her I was her father’s
murderer, a monster of ingratitude, a portent of falseness. She could
not forgive. Enough that she did not flinch from me, that she was ready
to bear with me, that she was willing to use me a little longer.
We found the horses standing before the door at Paton’s quarters, and
Tom with them. She bade the black farewell, after a few words aside with
him, and ten minutes later we took the road on what I, for my part, knew
to be a hopeless mission. Still it would serve, for it would help to
pass these fatal hours; and afterwards she might comfort herself with
the remembrance that she had done all in her power, that she had spent
herself without stint or mercy in her father’s service.
My latest impression of Winsboro’, as I looked back before I settled
myself in the saddle, was of Paton engaged in a last desperate argument
with the Provost-Marshal. Only then did it occur to me that the
unfortunate Marshal had had orders to place me under arrest and had been
all day held at bay by my friend’s good offices.