“Cunningham consigned me to a more comfortable climate than this when I
asked him, and the turnkey did not know.”
“What did he look like?” said I.
“He was tall, very dark, and had a scar over the left eye.”
“Indeed? Did he have a way of standing with half-shut eyes, and his
mouth a little open?”
“Certainly. Why, Wynne, you must know the man.”
“I do--I do. He is my cousin.”
“I congratulate you.” And so saying, he went away to the door to receive
our rations, of which now every one except ourselves stole whatever he
could lay hands on.
It did seem to me, as I lay still, in much distress of body, and thought
over that which I now heard for the first time, that no man could be
so cruel as Arthur had shown himself. Time had gone by, and he had done
nothing. If, as appeared likely, he was sure I was almost in the act of
death, it seemed yet worse; for how could I, a dying man, hurt any one?
If for any cause he feared me, here was an end of it. It seemed to me
both stupid and villainous. He had warned me that I had everything to
dread from his enmity if I persisted in writing to Darthea. Assuredly
he had been as good as his word. He was unwilling to risk any worldly
advantages by giving me a gentleman’s satisfaction, and could coldly let
me die far from the love of those dear to me, in not much better state
than a pig perishing in a sty. Nay; the pig were better off, having
known no better things.
I thought much as I lay there, having been near to death, and therefore
seriously inclined, how impossible it must ever be for me to hate a man
enough to do as Arthur had done. As the days went on, the hope which
each week brought but hatched a new despair; and still I mended day by
day; and for this there was a singular cause. I kept thinking of the
hour when my cousin and I should meet; and as I fed this animal appetite
I won fresh desire to live, the motive serving as a means toward health
of body.
Concerning what had caused Arthur to lift no finger of help, I tried to
think no more. If it were because of Darthea, why should he so fear me?
I wished he had more reason. He must have learned later that I was still
alive, and that I was, when he saw me, in no state to recognise him. It
looked worse and worse as I thought about it, until Delaney, hearing me
talk of nothing else, told me I would go mad like the butcher if I let
myself dwell longer upon it. Thus wisely counselled, I set it aside.
It was now the beginning of February; I was greatly improved, and fast
gaining strength, but had lost, as I guessed, nearly three stone. There
were but six of us left, the butcher dying last on his rotten straw in
awful anguish of terror and despair. Delaney and I consoled each,
other all this dreary winter, and we did all men could do for the more
unfortunate ones, whose sicknesses and deaths made this hell of distress
almost unbearable.
The food was at times better, and then again, as a drunkard’s caprice
willed, there might be none for a day. If we were ourselves wretched and
starved, we were at least a source of comfort and food to those minor
beings to whom we furnished both board and bed.
I do not mean to tell over the often-heard story of a prison; what
we did to while away the hours; how we taxed our memories until the
reading, long forgotten, came back in morsels, and could be put together
for new pleasure of it.
There was one little man who had been a broken-down clergyman, and had
entered the army. His chief trouble was that he could get no rum, and
of this he talked whenever we would listen. He had, like several sots I
have known, a remarkable memory, and was thus a great resource to us, as
he could repeat whole plays, and a wonderful amount of the Bible. As it
was hard to arouse him, and get him to use his power to recall what he
had read, in an evil hour we bribed him with some choice bits of our
noble rations. After this the price would rise at times, and he became
greedy. His mind gave way by degrees, but he still kept his memory,
being also more and more eager to be paid for his power to interest or
amuse us.
When he grew melancholy and sleepless, and walked about all night, it
was a real addition to our many evils. He declared that he must soon
die, and I heard him one night earnestly beseeching God, in language of
great force and eloquence, to forgive him. In the morning he was dead,
having strangled himself resolutely with a strip of blanket and a broken
rung of a stool, with which he had twisted the cord. It must have taken
such obstinate courage as no one could have believed him to possess. He
had no capacity to attach men, and I do not think we grieved for him
as much as for the loss of what was truly a library, and not to be
replaced.
On the 3d of February I awakened with a fresh and happy thought in my
mind. My good friend the late lamented Dr. Franklin, used to say that
in sleep the mind creates thoughts for the day to hatch. I am rather
of opinion that sleep so feeds and rests the brain that when first we
awaken our power to think is at its best. At all events, on that day I
suddenly saw a way to let the sweet outside world know I was alive.
At first I used to think of a chaplain as a resource, but I never saw
one. The surgeon came no more when I grew better. Being now able to move
about a little, I had noticed in the yard at times, but only of late,
a fat Romanist priest, who was allowed to bring soup or other food to
certain prisoners. I soon learned that, because Cunningham was of the
Church of Rome, those who were of his own faith were favoured. Indeed,
now and then a part of my lessening guineas obtained from these men
a share of the supplies which the priest, and, I may add, certain
gray-clad sisters, also brought; but this was rare.
That day in the yard I drew near to the priest, but saw Cunningham
looking on, and so I waited with the patience of a prisoned man. It
was quite two weeks before my chance came. The yard being small, was
literally full of half-clad, whole-starved men, who shivered and huddled
together where the sunlight fell. Many reeled with weakness; most were
thin past belief, their drawn skin the colour of a decayed lemon. From
this sad crowd came a strange odour, like to cheese, and yet not like
that. Even to remember it is most horrible. Passing near to a stout old
Sister of Charity, I said quietly:
“I have friends who would help me. For God’s love, see Miss Wynne in
Arch street, across from the Meeting.”
“I will do your errand,” she said.
“Others have said so, sister, and have lied to me.”
“I will do it,” she said. “And if she is away?”
I thought of my father. He seemed my natural resource, but my cousin
would be there. A final hope there was. I was foolish enough to say, “If
she is not in town, then Miss Darthea Peniston, near by. If you fail me,
I shall curse you while I live.”
“I will not fail you. Why should you poor prisoners be so ill used?
Trust me.”
I turned away satisfied, remembering that when I left Darthea was about
to return. If she came to know, that would be enough. I had faith in her
friendship and in her; and--if ever I saw her again--should I tell her
what now I knew of Arthur Wynne? I learned many lessons in this awful
place, and among them caution. I would wait and see.
Both Delaney and I strongly desired an exchange, and not merely a
parole. We imagined exchanges to be frequent. My own dilemma, Delaney
pointed out, was that I was not of the army, although I had been in it.
And so we speculated of things not yet come about, and what we would do
when they did come.
The next day went by, and the morning after, it being now February 19,
we were all in the yard. A turnkey came and bade me follow him. I went,
as you may imagine, with an eager heart, on the way, as I hoped, out of
this death in life. As I questioned the man, he said there was an order
for a lady to see me.
Now at this time my hair was a foot long, and no way to shear it. We
had taken the blankets of the dead, and made us coats by tearing holes
through which to thrust our arms. Then, as we lacked for buttons, or
string for points, we could do no more than wrap these strange gowns
about us so as to cover our rags.
My costume troubled me little. I went to the foul-smelling room, now
empty, and waited until the man came back. As he opened the door, I saw
the good Sister of Charity in the hall, and then--who but Darthea? She
was in a long cloak and great muff, and held in her hand a winter mask.
Seeing me in this blue blanket, all unshorn, and with what beard I had
covering my face, when all men but Hessians shaved clean, I wonder not,
I say, that, seeing this gaunt scarecrow, she fell back, saying there
was some mistake.
I cried out, “Darthea! Darthea! Do not leave me. It is I! It is I, Hugh
Wynne.”
“My God!” she cried, “it is Hugh! It is! it is!” At this she caught my
lean yellow hand, and went on to say, “Why were we never told? Your Aunt
Wynne is away. Since we thought you dead, she has ordered mourning, and
is gone to her farm, and leaves the servants to feed those quartered on
her. But you are not dead, thank God! thank God! I was but a day come
from New York, and was at home when the dear old sister came and told
me. I made her sit down while I called my aunt. Then Arthur came, and
I told him. He was greatly shocked to hear it. He reminded me that some
while before he had told me that he had seen a man who looked like you
in the jail, and was about to die; and now could it--could it have been
you? He is for duty at the forts to-day, but to-morrow he will get you
a parole. He supposed a day made no matter; at all events, he must delay
that long. I never saw him so troubled.”
“Well he might be,” thought I. I merely said, “Indeed?” But I must have
looked my doubt, for she added quickly:
“Who could know you, Mr. Wynne?”
I stood all this while clutching at my blanket to cover my filth and
rags, and she, young and tender, now all tears, now flashing a smile in
between, like the pretty lightning of this storm of gentle pity.
“And what fetched you here to this awful place?” I said. “God knows how
welcome you are, but--”
“Oh,” she cried, “when Arthur went, I said I would wait, but I could
not. My aunt was in a rage, but I would go with the dear sister; and
then I found Sir William, and Mr. Montresor was there; and you will be
helped, and an end put to this wickedness. But the parole Arthur will
ask for--that is better.”
“Darthea,” I said hoarsely, my voice breaking, “I have been here since
early in October. I have been starved, frozen, maltreated a hundred
ways, but I can never take a parole. My friend Delaney and I are agreed
on this. As to exchanges, I have no rank, and I may be a year inactive.
I will take my chance here.” I think death had been preferable to
a parole obtained for me by Arthur Wynne. No; I was not made of my
father-rock to do this and then to want to kill the man. I could not do
that. I put it on the parole. Delaney and I had agreed, and on this I
stood firm.
She implored me to change my mind. “How obstinate you are!” she cried.
“Do you never change? Oh, you are dreadfully changed! Do not die; you
must not.” She was strange in her excitement.
Then I thought to ask to have Delaney in, and to bid him tell that vile
and wicked story; but it seemed no place nor time to hurt her who had
so helped me, daring to do what few young women had ever dared even to
think of. As I hesitated, I was struck with a thought which was like a
physical pain. It put myself and the other wretched business quite out
of my head.
“O Darthea!” I cried, “you should never have come here. Go at once. Do
not stay a minute. This is a house poisoned. Seven died of fever in this
room. Write me what else is to say, but go; and let me have some plain
clothes from home, and linen and a razor and scissors and, above all,”
and I smiled, “soap. But go! go! Why were you let to come?”
“I will go when I have done. Why did I come? Because I am your friend,
and this is the way I read friendship. Oh, I shall hear of it too. But
let him take care; I would do it again. And as to this parole, he shall
get it for you to-morrow, if you like it or not. I will write to you,
and the rest you shall have; and now good-by. I am to be at home for
Mr. Montresor in a half-hour. This is but a bit of payment for the ugly
little girl, who is very honest, sir, I do assure you.”
“Do go,” I cried. “And, oh, Darthea, if this is your friendship, what
would be your love!”
“Fie! fie! Hush!” she said, and was gone.
In two hours came a note, and I learned, for I had asked to hear of
the war, that Washington was not dead. We had been told that he was. I
heard, too, of Burgoyne’s surrender, news now near to five months old,
of Count Donop’s defeat and death, of the fall of our forts on the
Delaware, of Lord Cornwallis gone to England, of failures to effect
exchanges. Then she went on to write: “Your father was, strange to say,
roused out of a sort of lethargy by the news of your death. Jack managed
to get a letter to your aunt to say you were missing, and Arthur had
search made for you; but many nameless ones were buried in haste, and he
could not find your name on the lists of prisoners.” None had been made
to my knowledge. “We all thought you dead. Your aunt is in mourning, but
only of late, thinking it could not be that you were lost to her. It is
well, as you do not like your cousin, that you should know how kind he
has been, and what a comfort to your father. Indeed,--and now it will
amuse you,--he told Arthur, you being dead, he had still a son, and
would consider Arthur as his heir. All this ought to make you think
better of Arthur, whom, I do believe, you have no reason to dislike. I
beg of you to think otherwise of him; my friends must be his. And have
I not proved I am a friend? I fear I cannot at once get news of you to
Mistress Wynne, who has gone to live at the Hill Farm.” And so, with
other kind words, she ended, and I, putting the note in a safe place,
sat on my straw, and laughed to think of Arthur’s filial care and
present disappointment.
In a few hours came the turnkey, quite captured by Darthea, and no doubt
the richer for a good fee. He fetched a portmantle just come, and an
order to put me in a room alone. I left Delaney with sorrow, but hoped
for some way to help him. In an hour I was clean for the first time in
five months, neatly shaven, my hair somehow cut, and I in sweet linen
and a good, plain gray suit, and a beaver to match. Then I sat down to
think, the mere hope of escape making me weak, and what came of it you
shall hear.
The next day I was ordered forth with a few others, and, luckily, late
in the afternoon. I covered my fine clothes with the blanket and went
out. In the yard, just before our time was up, I saw the sister, to
my delight, and perceived too, with joy, that the prisoners did not
recognise me, decently shaven as I was. Only one thing held me back or
made me doubt that I was now close to liberty: I was so feeble that at
times I staggered in walking. I knew, however, that when my new clothes
became familiar in the jail my chance of escape would be over. I must
take the present opportunity, and trust to luck.
My scheme I had clearly thought out. I meant, when in the yard, to drop
the blanket cover, and coolly follow the sister, trusting to my being
taken, in my new garments, for a visitor. It was simple, and like enough
to succeed if my strength held out. It was dusk, and a dark, overclouded
day. A bell was rung, this being the signal for the gang of prisoners to
go to their rooms. Falling back a little, I cast aside the blanket,
and then following the rest, was at once in the hall, dimly lit with
lanterns. It was some eighty feet long. Here I kept behind the group,
and went boldly after the stout sister. No one seemed disposed to
suspect the well-dressed gentleman in gray. I went by the turnkey,
keeping my face the other way. I was some fifteen feet from the great
barred outer door. The two sentries stepped back to let the sister go
by. Meanwhile the gate-keeper, with his back to me, was busy with his
keys. He unlocked the door and pulled it open. A greater lantern hung
over it. I was aghast to see the wretch, Cunningham, just about to
enter. He was sure to detect me. I hesitated, but the lookout into space
and liberty was enough for me. The beast fell back to let the sister
pass out. I dashed by the guards, upset the good woman, and, just
outside of the doorway, struck Cunningham in the face--a blow that had
in it all the gathered hate of five months of brutal treatment. He fell
back, stumbling on the broad upper step. I caught him a second full
in the neck, as I followed. With an oath, he rolled back down the high
steps, as I, leaping over him, ran across Walnut street. One of
the outside guards fired wildly, but might as well have killed some
passer-by as me.
Opposite were the low houses afterward removed to enlarge Independence
Square. I darted through the open door of a cobbler’s shop, and out at
the back into a small yard, and over palings into the open space. It was
quite dark, as the day was overcast. I ran behind the houses to Fifth
street. Here I jumped down the raised bank and turned northward.
Beside me was a mechanic going home with his lantern, which, by military
law, all had to carry after fall of night. He looked at me as if in
doubt, and I took my chance, saying, “Take no notice. I am a prisoner
run away from the jail.”
“I’m your man,” he said. “Take the lantern, and walk with me. I hear
those devils.” And indeed there was a great noise on Walnut street and
in the square. Men were dimly seen running to and fro, and seizing any
who had no lanterns.
We went on to Chestnut street, and down to Second. I asked him here to
go to Dock Creek with me.
At my own home I offered him my last guinea, but he said No. I then told
him my name, and desired he would some day, in better times, seek me
out. And so the honest fellow left me. Many a year after he did come to
me in debt and trouble, and, you may be sure, was set at ease for the
rest of his life.
Looking up, I saw light in the window, and within I could see Arthur and
three other officers. The liquors and decanters were on a table, with
bread and cheese, plain to be seen by hungry eyes. My father’s bulky
form was in his big Penn arm-chair, his head fallen forward. He was
sound asleep. Colonel Tarleton had his feet on a low stool my mother
used for her basket of sewing material and the stockings she was so
constantly darning. Harcourt and Colonel O’Hara were matching pennies,
and my cousin was standing by the fire, speaking now and then, a glass
in his hand.
The dog asleep in the stable was no more considered than was my poor
father by these insolent guests. An almost overmastering rage possessed
me as I gazed through the panes; for no one had closed the shutters
as was usually done at nightfall. I was hungry, cold, and weak, and
these--! I turned away, and went down the bank of Dock Creek to the
boat-house. It was locked, and this made it likely my boat had escaped
the strict search made by the British. No one being in sight, I went
around the house to the stable at the farther end of the garden. As I
came near I smelled the smoke of our old Tom’s pipe, and then seeing
him, I called softly, “Tom! Tom!”
He jumped up, crying, “Save us, Master Hugh!” and started to run. In a
moment I had him by the arm, and quickly made him understand that I was
alive, and needed food and help. As soon as he was recovered from his
fright, he fetched me milk, bread, and a bottle of Hollands. After a
greedy meal, he carried to the boat, at my order, the rest of the pint
of spirits, oars, paddle, and boat-key. On the way it occurred to me to
ask for Lucy. She had been seized by the Hessian, Von Heiser, and was
in my aunt’s stable. I had not asked about the mare without a purpose;
I was in a state of intense mental clearness, with all my wits in order.
In the few minutes that followed I told Tom not to let any one know of
my coming, and then, pushing off, I dropped quietly down the creek.
It was cold and very dark, and there was some ice afloat in small
masses, amidst which my boat, turning with no guidance, moved on the
full of the ebb tide toward the great river. For about two hundred
yards I drifted, lying flat on my back. At the outlet of the creek was
a sudden turn where the current almost fetched me ashore on the south
bank. There from the slip nearly overhead, as the boat whirled around,
I heard a sentinel call out, “Stop there, or I fire!” I remained
motionless, feeling sure that he would not risk an alarm by reason of a
skiff gone adrift. As he called again the boat slewed around, and shot,
stern first, far out into the great flood of the Delaware. Never had it
seemed to me a dearer friend. I was free. Cautiously using the paddle
without rising, I was soon in mid-river. Then I sat up, and, taking a
great drink of the gin, I rowed up stream in the darkness, finding less
ice than I had thought probable.
My plan now was to pull up to Burlington or Bristol; but I soon found
the ice in greater masses, and I began to be puzzled. I turned toward
Jersey, and hither and thither, and in a few minutes came upon fields
of moving ice. It was clear that I must land in the city, and take my
chance of getting past the line of sentries. I pulled cautiously in at
Arch street, and saw a sloop lying at a slip. Lying down, I used the
paddle until at her side. Hearing no sound, I climbed up over her low
rail, and made fast the boat. I could see that no one was on deck.
A lighted lantern hung from a rope near the bow. I took it down, and
boldly stepped on the slip. A sentry, seeing me come, said, “A cold
night, captain.” “Very,” I rejoined, and went on up the slope. Chance
had favoured me. In a few minutes I saw my aunt’s house, shut up, but
with a light over the transom of the hall door. I passed on, went up to
Third street, around to the back of the premises, and over the palings
into the long garden behind the dwelling. As I stood reflecting I heard
Lucy neigh, and no voice of friend could have been sweeter. I smiled to
think that I was a man in the position of a thief, but with a right to
take whatsoever I might need. I began to suspect, too, that no one was
in the house. Moving toward it with care, I found all the back doors
open, or at least not fastened. A fire burned on the kitchen hearth,
and, first making sure of the absence of the servants, I shot the bolt
of the hall door, fastened the pin-bolts of the windows which looked
on the front street, and went back to the kitchen with one overruling
desire to be well warmed. I had been cold for four months. Making a
roaring fire, I roasted myself for half an hour, turning like a duck
on a spit. Heat and good bread and coffee I craved most. I found here
enough of all, but no liquors; the gin I had finished, a good pint, and
never felt it. Still feeling my weakness, and aware that I needed all my
strength, I stayed yet a minute, deep in thought, and reluctant to leave
the comfort of the hearth. At last I took a lantern and went upstairs.
The china gods and beasts were all put away, the silver tankards and
plate removed, the rugs gone. My good Whig aunt had done her best to
make her despotic boarders no more comfortable than she could help. All
was neglect, dust, and dirt; pipes and empty bottles lay about, and a
smell of stale tobacco smoke was in the air. Poor Aunt Gainor!
Upstairs the general had moved into the room sacred to her spinster
slumbers. The servants had taken holiday, it seemed, and the officers
appeared to have been indifferent, or absent all day; for this room was
in a vile condition, with even the bed not yet made up, and the curtains
torn. In this and the front chamber, used commonly as my aunt’s own
sitting-room, was a strange litter of maps, papers, and equipments, two
swords, a brace of inlaid pistols, brass-plated, two Hessian hats, the
trappings of a Brunswick chasseur, and a long military cloak with a
gold-braided regimental number under a large crown on each shoulder. A
sense of amusement stole over me, although I was so tired I could have
fallen with fatigue. I was feeling my weakness, and suffering from what
even to a man in health would have been great exertion. A full flask of
rum lay on the table; I put it in my pocket, leaving the silver cover.
Next I put on the long cloak, a tall Anhalter helmet, and a straight,
gold-mounted sword. The pistols I took also, loading and priming them,
and leaving only the box where they had lain.
It was now almost ten, and I could not hope to be long left in easy
possession. Then I turned to the table. Much of the confused mass of
papers was in German. I put in my pocket a beautifully drawn map of our
own lines at Valley Forge. I gave it to Alexander Hamilton soon after
the war.
A small pipe--I think the Germans call meerschaum--I could not despise,
nor a great bundle of tobacco, which I thrust into the inside pouch of
the cloak.
Last I saw a sealed letter to Lieutenant-Colonel Ernst Ludwig Wilhelm
von Specht, also one to Colonel Montresor. These were much to my
purpose. Finally, as I heard the great clock on the stairway strike ten,
I scribbled on a sheet of paper under Von Knyphausen’s arms, “Captain
Allan McLane presents his compliments to General von Knyphausen,
and hopes he will do Captain McLane the honour to return his
visit.--February 20, 1778, 10 P. M.”
I laughed as I went downstairs, in that mood of merriment which was my
one sign of excitement at the near approach of peril. A pause at the
grateful fire, and a moment later I was saddling Lucy, looking well to
girth and bit, and last buckling on the spurs of a Hessian officer.
In a few minutes I was trotting up Fifth street. I knew only that the
too extended lines had been drawn in close to the city, after the sharp
lesson at Germantown; but I did not know how complete were the forts
and abatis crossing from the Delaware to the Schuylkill, to the north of
Callowhill street. I meant to pass the lines somewhere, trusting to the
legs of Lucy, who well understood the change of riders, and seemed in
excellent condition.
I turned off into the fields to the westward at Vine street, riding
carefully; and soon, as I moved to north, saw that fences, fruit-trees,
and the scattered remnant of the wood were gone. Stumbling through
mud and over stumps, I began to see before me one of Montresor’s
blockhouses, and presently, for now the night was far too clear, the
forms of sentries on top. Dismounting, I moved aside a hundred yards, so
that I passed unseen between two of these forts. But a good piece to the
north of them I came on a strong stockade, and saw beyond it a hazy
mass of what I took to be a monster tangle of dead trees, well fitted to
delay a storming-party. Then I remembered my ride with Montresor. I was
caught. I stood still in the night, wondering what to do: behind me the
hum and glow of the city, before me freedom and darkness.
A man thinks quickly in an hour like that. I mounted, feeling the lift
of my weak body an exertion, and rode back into Vine, and so to Front
street. A hundred yards before me was a great camp-fire, to left of
where the road to Germantown diverges. I saw figures about it passing to
and fro. I felt for my pistols in the holsters of the saddle, and cocked
the one on my right, loosened the long straight Hessian blade, and took
the two letters in my bridle-hand.
As I rode up I saw, for the fire was brightly blazing, that there were
tents, pickets to left and right, men afoot, and horses not saddled. A
sergeant came out into the road. “Halt!” he cried. In broken English,
I said I had a letter for Colonel Montresor, to be given in the
morning when he would be out to inspect the lines, and one for
Lieutenant-Colonel von Specht. The man took the letters. I meant to turn
back, wheel, and go by at speed; but by evil luck a wind from the
north blew open my cloak, and in the brilliant firelight he saw my gray
clothes.
“Holloa!” he cried. “What’s the word? You are not in uniform. Get off!”
So saying, he caught the rein he had dropped, a man or two running
toward us as he spoke.
If I could, I would have spared the man: but it was his life or mine;
I knew that. I fired square at his chest, the mare reared, the man fell
with a cry. I let Lucy have both spurs. She leaped as a deer leaps,
catching a fellow in the chest with her shoulder, and was off like a
crazy thing. I looked ahead; the way was clear. A glance back showed
me the road full of men. I heard shouts, orders, shot after shot. I was
soon far beyond danger, and going at racing speed through the night; but
I had scared up a pleasant hornets’ nest. The last picket was a quarter
of a mile ahead, perhaps. I pulled up, and with difficulty made the mare
walk. There were fires on both sides, and a lot of alert soldiers out in
the road. I turned off into the fields behind a farm-house, glad of the
absence of fences. The next moment I felt the mare gather herself with
the half-pause every horseman knows so well. She had taken a ditch, and
prettily too.
Keeping off the highway, but in line with it, I went on slowly, leaning
over in the saddle. After a mile, and much stumbling about, I ceased to
hear noises back of me, and turned, approaching the road I had left.
No one was in sight. Why I was not followed by the horse I know not. I
wrapped my cloak about me, and rode on up the deserted highway. I was
free, and on neutral ground. All I had to fear was an encounter with
one of the foraging parties which kept the country around in constant
terror. I met no one. The sole unpleasant thought which haunted my cold
night ride was the face of the poor devil I had shot. I put it aside.
Prison life had at least taught me the habit of dismissing the torment
of vain reflection on an irreparable past.
I went by the old burying-ground of Germantown, and the rare houses,
going slowly on account of the road, which was full of deep holes, and
so through the market-place where we made our last charge.
At last I breasted the slippery rise of Chestnut Hill, and throwing my
cloak over the mare, that I had taught to stand, went up to the door of
my Aunt Gainor’s house.
I knocked long before I was heard. A window was opened above me, and
a voice I loved called out to know what I wanted. I replied, “It is I,
Hugh. Be quick!” A moment later I was in her dear old arms, the servants
were called up, and my faithful Lucy was cared for. Then I fell on a
settle, at the limit of my strength. I was put to bed, and glad I was to
stay there for two days, and not even talk. Indeed, what with good diet
and milk and spirits and clean sheets, I slept as I had not done for
many a night.
As soon as I was up and fit to converse, I was made to tell my story
over and over. Meanwhile my aunt was desperately afraid lest we should
be visited, as was not rare, by foragers or Tory partisans. I must go,
and at once. Even war was to be preferred to this anxiety. But before
I went she must tell me what she thought of this strange business of my
cousin. I had been wise not to tell Darthea. A rascal like Arthur would
trip himself up soon or late. Then she fell to thinking, and, bidding
me cease for a little, sat with her head in her large hands, having her
elbows on the table.
“Hugh,” she said at last, “he must have more cause to be jealous than
we know. He has still more now. Is it only the woman? Can it be anything
about the estate in Wales? It must be; you remember how he lied to us
about it; but what is it?”
“He thinks I regret the loss of Wyncote, and that I would like to have
it. I am afraid I found it pleasant to say so, seeing that it annoyed
him.”
“I wish he may have some such cause to hate you, and no other. But why?
Your grandfather made a legal conveyance of an unentailed property, got
some ready money,--how much I never knew,--and came away. How can you
interfere with Arthur? The Wynnes, I have heard, have Welsh memories for
an insult. You struck him once.”
“The blow!” and I smiled. “Yes; the woman! Pray God it be that. The
estate--he is welcome to it. I hardly think a Welsh home would bribe me
to leave my own country. But I do not see, aunt, why you so often talk
as if Wyncote were ours, and stolen from us. I do not want it, and why
should I?”
“Is not that unreasonable, Hugh?” she returned, with more quietness in
the way of reply than was usual when she was arguing. “You are young
now. The anger between England and ourselves makes all things in Great
Britain seem hateful to you, to me, to all honest colonials; but this
will not last. Peace will come one day or another, and when it does, to
be Wynne of Wyncote--”
“Good gracious, Aunt Gainor! let us set this aside. Arthur Wynne’s lies
have stirred us all to think there must be some reason for such a keen
desire to mislead me, you, and my father--above all, my father. But
it is my father’s business, not mine; nor, if I may be excused, is it
yours.”
“That is true, or would be if your father were well or interested. He is
neither--neither; and there is something in the matter. I shall ask my
brother.”
“You have done that before.”
“I have, but I got nothing. Now he is in such a state that he may be
more free of speech. I think he could be got to tell me what neither he
nor my own father liked to speak of.”
Upon this, I told my aunt that I did trust she would not take advantage
of my father’s weak mind to get that which, when of wholesome wits, he
had seen fit to conceal. I did not like it.
“Nonsense!” she cried, “nonsense! if you could have the old home--”
“But how can I? It is like promising fairy gold, and I don’t want it. I
should like to go there once and see it and my cousins, and come home to
this country.”
I was, in fact, weary of the thing, and my aunt would have talked it
over all day. She could not see why I was so set in my mind. She kept
urging that something would turn up about it, and we should have to act;
then I would change my mind. I hardly knew why that which once had been
a delightful and mysterious bait now lured me not at all. What with the
great war, and my own maturity, and Darthea, Wyncote had shrunken out of
the world of my desires. It was too dreamy a bribe for one of my turn of
mind. I would have given half Wales for an hour alone with Arthur Wynne.
Then through my meditations I heard, “Well, mark my word, Master
Absolute; there is some flaw in their title, and--and soon or late--”
“Oh, please, aunt--”
“Well, do not make up your mind. I am afraid of you when you make up
your mind. You are as set in your ways as your father. Do you remember
what Nicholas Wain said of him: ‘When John Wynne puts down his foot,
thou hast got to dig it up to move him’?”
She was right; nor did I defend myself. I laughed, but was sad too,
thinking of my poor old father, whom I could not see, and of how far he
was now from being what his friend had described.
I said as much. My aunt replied, “Yes, it is too true; but I think he is
less unhappy, and so thinks Dr. Rush.”
After this our talk drifted away, and my aunt would once more hear of my
note in McLane’s name left for the Hessian general. “I hope yet to ask
him of it,” she cried, “and that dear Mr. Andre--I can see his face. It
is the French blood makes him so gentle. Catch him for me in the war.
I should like to have him on parole for a sixmonth.” And at this she
laughed, and heartily, as she did most things.
When this talk occurred we were in a great front room in the second
story. There was a deep bow--window to westward, and here my aunt liked
to be at set of sun, and to look over what seemed to be a boundless
forest; for the many scattered farms were hid away in their woodland
shelters, so that from this vantage of height it looked as though the
country beyond might be one great solitude. Nearer were well-tilled
farms, on which the snow still lay in melting drifts.
As we sat, I was smoking the first tobacco I had had since I left the
jail. This habit I learned long before, and after once falling a captive
to that consoler and counsellor, the pipe, I never gave it up. It is
like others of the good gifts of God: when abused it loses its use,
which seems a silly phrase, but does really mean more than it says. Jack
hath somewhere writ that words have souls, and are always more than they
look or say. I could wish mine to be so taken. And as to tobacco and
good rum, Jack said--but I forget what it was--something neat and pretty
and honest, that took a good grip of you. The tricks an old fellow’s
memory plays him are queer enough. I often recall the time and place of
something clever a friend hath said long ago, but when I try to get it
back, I have but a sense of its pleasantness, as of a flavour left in
the mouth, while all the wise words of his saying are quite forgot. Dr.
Rush thinks that we are often happy or morose without apparent cause,
when the mind is but recalling the influence of some former joy or
grief, but not that which created either. The great doctor had many hard
sayings, and this was one.
As I sat reflecting, I felt a sudden consciousness of the pleasure
my tobacco gave, and then of how delightful it was to be, as it were,
growing younger day by day, and of how, with return of strength, came
a certain keenness of the senses as to odours, and as to what I ate
or drank. It seemed to me a kind of reward for suffering endured with
patience.
My Aunt Gainor sat watching me with the pleasure good women have over
one too weak to resist being coddled. When I had come to this happy
condition of wanting a pipe, as I had jolted out of my pouch the tobacco
I stole, she went off and brought the good weed out of the barn, where
she had saved her last crop under what scant hay the Hessian foragers
left her. I must smoke in her own library, a thing unheard of before;
she loved to smell a good tobacco.
“O Aunt Gainor!”
“But Jack!” she said. She did not like to see Jack with a pipe. He
looked too like a sweet girl, with his fair skin and his yellow hair.
I smoked on in mighty peace of mind, and soon she began again, being
rarely long silent, “I hope you and your cousin will never meet, Hugh.”
The suddenness of this overcame me, and I felt myself flush.
“Ah!” she said, “I knew it. There is little love lost between you.”
“There are things a man cannot forgive.”
“Then may the good God keep you apart, my son.”
“I trust not,” said I. “I can forgive an insult, even if I am Welsh and
a Wynne; but oh, Aunt Gainor, those added weeks of misery, foulness,
filth, and pain I owe to this man! I will kill him as I would kill any
other vermin.” Then I was ashamed, for to say such things before women
was not my way.
“I could kill him myself,” said my aunt, savagely. “And now do have some
more of this nice, good gruel,” which set me to laughing.
“Let him go,” said I, “and the gruel too.”
“And that is what you must do, sir. You must go. I am all day in
terror.”
And still I stayed on, pretty easy in mind; for my aunt had set a fellow
on watch at Mount Airy, to let us know if any parties appeared, and we
kept Lucy saddled. I sorely needed this rest and to be fed; for I was a
mere shadow of my big self when I alighted at her door on that memorable
20th of February.
The day before I left this delightful haven between jail and camp, came
one of my aunt’s women slaves with a letter she had brought from the
city, and this was what it said:
“DEAR MISTRESS WYNNE: At last I am honoured with the permission to write
and tell you that Mr. Hugh Wynne is alive. It was cruel that the general
would not earlier grant me so small a favour as to pass an open letter;
but Arthur found much difficulty, by reason, I fear, of your well-known
opinions. He was on the way to the jail when he heard of Mr. Hugh Wynne’s
having escaped, after dreadfully injuring the poor man who took such good
care of him all winter. How it came that he lay five months in this vile
abode neither Arthur nor I can imagine, nor yet how he got out of the
town.
“Arthur tells me that insolent rebel, Allan McLane, broke into your house
and stole the beautiful sword the Elector of Hesse gave to General von
Knyphausen, and what more he took the Lord knows. Also he left an
impudent letter. The general will hang him whenever he catches him; but
there is a proverb: perhaps it is sometimes the fish that is the better
fisherman.
“I have a queer suspicion as to this matter, and as to the mare Lucy
being stolen. I am so glad it is I that have the joy to tell you of Mr.
Hugh Wynne’s safety; and until he returns my visit, and forever after, I
am, madam,
“Your devoted, humble servant,
“DARTHEA.
“To Mad(e) Wynne,
“At the Hill Farm,
“Chestnut Hill.”
My aunt said it was sweet and thoughtful of Darthea, and we had a fine
laugh over the burglary of that bad man, McLane. The woman went back
with two notes stitched into the lining of her gown; one was from, my
aunt, and one I wrote; and to this day Darthea alone knows what it said.
God bless her!
It was March 20 of ‘78 before I felt myself fully able to set out for
camp. I had run no great risk. The country had been ravaged till it
was hard to find a pig or a cow. Farmers were on small rations, and the
foragers had quit looking for what did not exist. One dull morning I
had the mare saddled, and got ready to leave. It was of a Friday I went
away; my aunt as unwilling to have me set out as she had been eager to
have me go the day before. My Quaker training left me clear of all
such nonsense, and, kissing the dear lady, I left her in tears by the
roadside.