He laughed, and declared he had won a guinea of Mr. Hamilton. “I did bet
on your face, Monsieur Vynne. I make you my compliments, and shall I say
it is ‘Yes’?”
“Yes; and I shall go to-morrow, Sunday.” And with this he went away.
When I told McLane he said it was a pity, because the redcoats were to
have a grand fandango on the 18th, and he meant to amuse himself that
evening, which he did to some purpose, as you shall hear.
I spent the day in buying from a farmer a full Quaker dress, and stained
my face that night a fine brownish tint with stale pokeberry juice. It
was all the ink we had.
Very early on the 17th I rode at dawn with a trooper to my aunt’s house,
and in the woods back of it changed my clothes for the Quaker rig and
broad-brimmed hat. To my delight, my aunt did not know me when I said I
wanted to buy her remaining cow. She was angry enough, until I began to
laugh and told her to look at me. Of course she entreated me not to go,
but seeing me resolved, bade me take the beast and be off. She would do
without milk; as for me, I should be the cause of her death.
I set out about six with poor Sukey, and was so bothered by the horrible
road and by her desire to get back to her stall that it was near eleven
in the morning before we got to town. As usual, food was welcome, and a
trooper was sent with me to the commissary at the Bettering-house, where
I was paid three pounds six after much sharp bargaining in good Quaker
talk. A pass to return was given me, and with this in my pocket I walked
away.
I went through the woods and the Sunday quiet of the camps without
trouble, saying I had lost my way, and innocently showing my pass
to everybody. Back and to south of the works on Callowhill were the
Hessians and the Fourth foot. The Seventh and Fourteenth British
Grenadiers lay from Delaware Seventh to westward; the Yagers at
Schuylkill Third street, or where that would be on Mr. Penn’s plan;
and so to Cohocsink Creek dragoons and foot. North of them were Colonel
Montresor’s nine blockhouses, connected by a heavy stockade and abatis,
and in front of this chevaux-de-frise and the tangled mass of dead trees
which had so beaten me when I escaped. The stockade and the brush
and the tumbled fruit-trees were dry from long exposure, and were, I
thought, well fitted to defy attack.
I turned west again, and went out to the Schuylkill River, where at the
upper ferry was now a bridge with another fort. Then I walked southward
along the stream. The guards on the river-bank twice turned me back; but
at last, taking to the woods, I got into the open farm country beyond
South Street, and before dark climbed a dead pine and was able to see
the fort near to Mr. Andrew Hamilton’s seat of the Woodlands, set high
above the lower ferry, which was now well bridged.
Pretty tired, I lay down awhile, and then strolled off into town to get
a lodging. When past Walnut street I found the streets unusually full.
I had of purpose chosen First-day for my errand, expecting to find our
usual Sunday quiet, but the licence of an army had changed the ways of
this decorous town. Every one had a lantern, which gave an odd look of
festivity, and, to comply with the military rule, I bought me a lantern.
Men were crying tickets for the play of the “Mock Doctor” on Tuesday,
and for Saturday, “The Deuce is in Him!” Others sold places for the race
on Wednesday, and also hawked almanacs and Tory broadsides. The stores
on Second street were open and well lighted, and the coffee-house was
full of redcoats carousing, while loose women tapped on the windows and
gathered at the doors. All seemed merry and prosperous. Here and there
a staid Quaker in drab walked up the busy street on his homeward way,
undistracted by the merriment and noise of the thronged thoroughfare. A
dozen redcoats went by to change the guards set at the doors of general
officers. A negro paused on the sidewalk, crying, “Pepper-pot, smoking
hot!” Another offered me the pleasant calamus-root, which in those days
people liked to chew. A man in a red coat walked in the roadway ringing
a bell and crying, “Lost child!” Sedan-chairs or chaises set down
officers. The quiet, sedate city of Penn had lost its air of demure
respectability, and I felt like one in a strange place. This sense of
alien surroundings may have helped to put me off my guard; for, because
of being a moment careless, I ran a needless risk. Over the way I saw
two blacks holding lanterns so as to show a great bill pasted on a wall.
I crossed to look at it. Above was a Latin motto, which I cannot now
recall, but the body of it I remember well:
“All Intrepid, able-bodied Heroes who are willing to serve against the
Arbitrary Usurpations of a Tyranickal Congress can now, by enlisting,
acquire the polite Accomplishments of a Soldier.
“Such spirited Fellows will, besides their Pay, be rewarded at the End
of the War with
Fifty Acres
of Land,
To which every Heroe may retire and Enjoy His Lass and His Bottle.”
This so much amused me that I stood still to gaze; for below it was seen
the name of an old schoolmate, William Allen, now a lieutenant-colonel,
in want of Tory recruits.
I felt suddenly a rousing whack on the back, and turning in a rage, saw
two drunken grenadiers.
“Join the harmy, friend; make a cussed fine Quaker bombardier.”
I instantly cooled, for people began to stop, pleased at the fun
of baiting a Quaker. The others cried, “Give us a drink, old
Thee-and-Thou!” Some soldiers paused, hoping for a ring and a fight. I
was pushed about and hustled. I saw that at any moment it might end
ill. I had a mighty mind toward anything but non-resistance, but
still, fearing to hit the fellows, I cried out meekly, “Thou art wrong,
friends, to oppress a poor man.” Just then I heard William Allen’s voice
back of me, crying, “Let that Quaker alone!” As he quickly exercised
the authority of an officer, the gathering crowd dispersed, and the
grenadiers staggered away. I was prompt enough to slip down High street,
glad to be so well out of it.
At the inn of the “Bag of Nails,” on Front street, I found a number of
Friends, quiet over their Hollands. I sat down in a dark corner, and
would have had a well-earned bowl; but I was no sooner seated than in
came a man with a small bell, and, walking among the guests, rang it,
saying, “It is half after ten, and there will be no more liquor served.
No more! no more!”
I knew that it would be impossible to break this decree, and therefore
contented myself with cold beef and cole-slaw. I went to bed, and
thought over the oddity of my being helped by William Allen, and of how
easily I might have been caught.
In washing next morning I was off my guard, and got rid of the most of
my pokeberry juice. I saw my folly too late, but there was no help for
it. I resolved to keep my wide brim well down over my face, seeing in a
mirror how too much like my own self I had become.
I settled my score and went out, passing down the river-front. Here
I counted and took careful note of the war-ships anchored all the way
along the Delaware. At noon I bought an “Observer,” and learned that Mr.
Howe had lost a spaniel dog, and that there was to be a great festival
that night in honour of Sir William Howe’s departure for England. Would
Darthea be there? I put aside the temptation to see that face again, and
set about learning what forts were on the neck of land to south, where
the two rivers, coming together at an angle, make what we call the
Neck. It was a wide lowland then, but partly diked and crossed by many
ditches; a marshy country much like a bit of Holland, with here and
there windmills to complete the resemblance.
It was so open that, what with the caution required in approaching the
block forts and the windabout ways the ditches made needful, it was late
before I got the information I needed. About nine on this 18th of May,
and long after dusk, I came upon the lower fort, as to which the general
was desirous of more complete knowledge. I walked around it, and was at
last ordered off by the guards.
My errand was now nearly done. My way north took me close to Walnut
Grove, the old country-seat of my father’s friend, Joseph Wharton, whom,
on account of his haughty ways, the world’s people wickedly called the
Quaker duke, The noise of people come to see, and the faint strains of
distant music, had for an hour reminded me, as I came nearer the gardens
of Walnut Grove, that what McLane had called the great fandango in
honour of Sir William Howe was in full activity. Here in the tall box
alleys as a child I had many times played, and every foot of the ground
was pleasingly familiar.
The noise increased as I approached through the growing darkness; for
near where the lane reached the Delaware was a small earthwork, the last
of those I needed to visit. I tried after viewing it to cross the double
rows of grenadiers which guarded this road, but was rudely repulsed,
and thus had need to go back of their line and around the rear of the
mansion. When opposite to the outhouses used for servants I paused in
the great crowd of townsfolk who were applauding or sullenly listening
to the music heard through the open windows. I had no great desire to
linger, but as it was dark I feared no recognition, and stayed to listen
to the fine band of the Hessians and the wild clash of their cymbals,
which, before these Germans came, no one had heard in the colonies. My
work was over. I had but to go far back of the house and make my way to
camp by any one of the ferries. Unluckily the music so attracted me that
I stayed on, and, step by step, quite at my ease, drew nearer to the
mansion.
The silly extravagance of the festival, with its afternoon display of
draped galleys and saluting ships gay with flags, and its absurd mock
show of a tournament in ridiculous costumes, I have no temptation to
describe, nor did I see this part of it. It was meant to honour Sir
William Howe, a man more liked than respected, and as a soldier beneath
contempt. I had no right to have lingered, and my idle curiosity came
near to have cost me dear. The house was precisely like Mount Pleasant,
later General Arnold’s home on the Schuylkill. In the centre of a large
lawn stood a double mansion of stone, and a little to each side were
seen outhouses for servants and kitchen use. The open space toward
the water was extensive enough to admit of the farcical tilting of the
afternoon. A great variety of evergreen trees and shrubs gave the house
a more shaded look than the season would otherwise have afforded. Among
these were countless lanterns illuminating the grounds, and from the
windows on all sides a blaze of light was visible. Back of the house
two roads ran off, one to west and one to north, and along these were
waggons coming and going, servants, orderlies, and people with supplies.
At this locality there was much confusion, and, picking up a pair of
lanterns, I went unquestioned past the guard on the south side of Walnut
Lane. Indeed, the sentries here and most of the orderlies were by this
time well in liquor. Once within the grounds, which I knew well, I
was perfectly at home. No one of the guests was without at the side or
front. Now and then a servant passed through the alleys of clipped box
to see to the lanterns. I was quite alone. In the shelter of a row of
low hemlocks and box I stood on a garden-seat at the south side of the
house, fifteen feet from a large bow-window, and, parting the branches,
I commanded a full view of the dancing-room. I had no business here, and
I knew it; I meant but to look and be gone. The May night was warm and
even sultry, so that the sashes were all raised and the curtains drawn
aside. I saw with ease a charming scene.
The walls were covered with mirrors lent for the occasion, and the room
I commanded was beautifully draped with flags and hangings. Young blacks
stood at the doors, or came and went with refreshments. These servants
were clad in blue and white, with red turbans and metal collars and
bracelets. The six Knights of the Blended Roses, or some like silliness,
had cast their queer raiments and were in uniform. Their six chosen
ladies were still in party-coloured costumes, which were not to my
taste. Most of the women--there were but some threescore, almost all
Tories or Moderates--were in the gorgeous brocades and the wide hooped
skirts of the day. The extravagance of the costumes struck me. The
head-dresses, a foot above the head with aigrets and feathers and an
excess of powder, seemed to me quite astonishing.
I stood motionless, caught by the beauty of the moving picture before
me. I have ever loved colour, and here was a feast of it hard to equal.
There were red coats and gold epaulets, sashes and ribboned orders, the
green and red of the chasseurs of Brunswick, blue navy uniforms, the
gold lace and glitter of staff-officers, and in and out among them the
clouds of floating muslin, gorgeous brocades, flashing silk petticoats,
jewels, and streaming ribbons. The air was full of powder shaken from
wig, queue, and head-dress; spurs clinked, stiff gown skirts rustled.
The moving mass of colour, lovely faces, and manly forms bent and swayed
in ordered movement as the music of the grenadier band seemed to move at
will these puppets of its harmony.
They were walking a minuet, and its tempered grace, which I have never
ceased to admire, seemed to suit well the splendour of embroidered gowns
and the brilliant glow of the scarlet coats. I began to note the faces
and to see them plainly, being, as I have said, not fifteen feet away
from the window. Sir William Howe was dancing with Miss Redman. I was
struck, as others have been, with his likeness to Washington, but his
face wanted the undisturbed serenity of our great chief’s. I dare say
he knew better than to accept as his honest right the fulsome homage of
this parting festival. I thought indeed that he looked discontented. I
caught glimpses of Colonel Tarleton bowing to Miss Bond. Then I saw Miss
Franks sweeping a deep curtsey to Lord Cathcart as he bowed. There were
the fair Shippen women, the Chews, the provost’s blonde daughter with
Sir John Wrottesley, Mrs. Ferguson, my aunt’s “Tory cat,” in gay chat
with Sir Charles Calder, Galloways, Allens--a pretty show of loyal
dames, with--save the officers-few young men I knew.
I started as Darthea moved across the window-space on the arm of Andre,
while following them were Montresor and my cousin. I felt the blood go
to my face as I saw them, and drew back, letting the parted branches
come together. With this storm of love and hate came again the sudden
reflection that I had no right to be here, and that I was off the track
of duty. I stood a moment; the night was dark; lights gleamed far out
on the river from the battleships. The strains of their bands fell and
rose, faintly heard in the distance.
I saw as it were before me with distinctness the camp on the windy hill,
the half-starved, ragged men, the face of the great chief they loved.
Once again I looked back on this contrasting scene of foolish luxury,
and turned to go from where I felt I never should have been. Poor old
Joseph Wharton! I smiled to think that, could he have known to what
worldly use his quiet Quaker home had come, he would have rolled uneasy
in his unnamed grave in the ground of the Arch Street Meeting.
Turning, I gave a few moments of thought to my plans. Suddenly the music
ceased, and, with laughter and pretty cries of expectation, gay gown and
fan and hoop and the many-coloured uniforms trooped out from the doors,
as I learned later, to see the fireworks, over which were to be set off
for final flattery in fiery letters, “_Tes Lauriers Sont Immortels_.”
I hope he liked them, those unfading laurels! The shrubbery was at once
alive with joyous women and laughing men.
I had not counted on this, and despite my disguise I felt that any
moment might put me in deadly peril. The speedy fate of a spy I knew too
well.
They were all around me in a minute, moving to and fro, merry and
chatting. I heard Andre say to Darthea, “It must please the general; a
great success. I shall write it all to London. Ah, Miss Peniston! how to
describe the ladies!”
“And their gowns!” cried Darthea, “their gowns!”
“I am reduced to desperation,” said Andre. “I must ask the women to
describe one another; hey, Wynne?” They were now standing apart from the
rest, and I, hid by the bushes, was not five feet away.
“A dangerous resource,” returned Wynne. “The list of wounded vanities
would be large. How like a brown fairy is Miss Pranks! Who shall
describe her? No woman will dare.”
“You might ask Mr. Oliver de Laneey,” said Miss Darthea. “She would be
secure of a pretty picture.”
“And you,” said Wynne--“who is to be your painter?”
“I shall beg for the place,” cried Andre.
“I think I shall take some rebel officer,” said Darthea, saucily.
“Think how fresh we should look to those love-starved gentlemen whom Sir
William has brought to such abject submission.”
Andre laughed, but not very heartily. As to Wynne, he was silent. The
captain went on to say how sad it was that just as the general was ready
to sweep those colonials out of existence--
“Why not say rebels, Andre?” Wynne broke in.
“Better not! better not! I never do. It only makes more bitter what is
bad enough. But where are the fireworks?”
Meanwhile I was in dire perplexity, afraid to stir, hoping that they
would move away.
“There is a seat hereabouts,” said my cousin.
“You must be tired, Miss Peniston.”
“A little.”
“I will look,” said Wynne. “This way.”
As I was in possession of the seat, I got down at once, but in two steps
Arthur was beside me, and for an instant the full blaze from the window
caught me square in the face. He was nearest, but Darthea was just
behind him, and none other but Andre close at hand.
“By heavens!” I heard, and my cousin had me by the collar. “Here, Andre!
A spy! a spy! Quick!”
I heard a cry from Darthea, and saw her reel against my cousin’s
shoulder.
“Help! help! I am--ill.”
Arthur turned, exclaiming, “Darthea! My God!” and thus distracted
between her and me, let slack his hold. I tore away and ran around the
house, upsetting an old officer, and so through the shrubbery and the
servants, whom I hustled one way and another. I heard shouts of “Spy!”
“Stop thief!” and the rattle of arms all around me. Several waggons
blocked the roadway. I felt that I must be caught, and darted under a
waggon body. I was close to the lines as I rose from beneath the waggon.
At this instant cannonry thundered out to north, and a rocket rose in
air. The grenadiers looked up in surprise. Seeing the momentary disorder
of these men, who were standing at intervals of some six feet apart,
I darted through them and into the crowd of spectators. I still heard
shouts and orders, but pushed in among the people outside of the guard,
hither and thither, using my legs and elbows to good purpose. Increasing
rattle of musketry was heard in the distance, the ships beating to
quarters, the cries and noises back of me louder and louder. I was now
moving slowly in the crowd, and at last got clean away from it.
What had happened I knew not, but it was most fortunate for me. When
a few yards from the people I began to run, stumbling over the fields,
into and through ditches, and because of this alarm was at last, I
concluded, reasonably safe.
[Illustration: “HERE ANDRE! A SPY”] Page 376 Hugh Wynne
[Transcriber’s Note: Three men stand side by side, as a woman, her back
to the viewer, appears to swoon or fall.]
I had run nearly a mile before I sat down to get my breath and cool off.
Away to north a great flare of red fire lit up the sky. What it was I
knew not, but sat awhile and gave myself leave to think. My cousin had
instantly known me, but he had hesitated a moment. I knew the signs of
indecision in his face too well to be misled. I had felt, as he seized
me, that I was lost. I could not blame him; it was clearly his duty.
But I do not think I should have willingly recognised him under like
circumstances. My very hatred would have made me more than hesitate.
Still, who can say what he would do in the haste of such a brief moral
conflict? I could recall, as I sat still and reflected, the really
savage joy in his face as he collared me. How deeply he must love her!
He seemed, as it were, to go to pieces at her cry. Was she ill? Did
her quick-coming sense of my danger make her faint? I had seen her
unaccountably thus affected once before, as he who reads these pages may
remember. Or was it a ready-witted ruse? Ah, my sweet Darthea! I wanted
to think it that.
The blaze to northward was still growing brighter, and being now far out
on the marshes south of the town, I made up my mind to use my pass
at the nearer ferry, which we call Gray’s, and this, too, as soon as
possible, for fear that orders to stop a Quaker spy might cause me to
regret delay.
When I came to Montresor’s bridge my thought went back to my former
escape, and, avoiding all appearance of haste, I stayed to ask the
sergeant in charge of the guard what the blaze meant. He said it was an
alert.
A few days after, McLane related to me with glee how with Clowe’s
dragoons and a hundred foot he had stolen up to the lines, every man
having a pot of tar; how they had smeared the dry abatis and brush, and
at a signal fired the whole mass of dried wood. He was followed into the
fastnesses of the Wissahickon, and lost his ensign and a man or two near
Barren Hill. The infantry scattered and hid in the woods, but McLane
swam his horse across the Schuylkill, got the help of Morgan’s rifles,
and, returning, drove his pursuers up to their own intrenchments. He
said it was the best fun he had ever had, and he hoped the Tory ladies
liked his fireworks. At all events, it saved my neck.
As I walked through Gray’s Lane I fell to reflecting upon Andre’s
behaviour, of which I have said nothing. I came to the conclusion that
he could hardly have recognised me. This seemed likely enough, because
we had not met often, and I too, apart from my disguise, had changed
very greatly. And yet why had he not responded to an obvious call to
duty? He certainly was not very quick to act on Arthur’s cry for help.
But Darthea was on his arm, and only let it go when she fell heavily
against my cousin.
I had a fine story for Jack, and so, thinking with wonder of the whirl
of adventure into which I had fallen ever since I left home, I hurried
along. It is a singular fact, but true, that certain men never have
unusual adventures. I am not one of these. Even in the most quiet times
of peace I meet with odd incidents, and this has always been my lot.
With this and other matters in my mind, resolving that never again
would I permit any motive to lead me off the track of the hour’s duty, I
walked along. I had had a lesson.
I sought my old master’s house, and reached it in an hour. Here I found
food and ready help, and before evening next day, May 19, was at the
camp. I spent an hour in carefully writing out my report, and Jack,
under my directions, being clever with the pencil, made plans of the
forts and the enemy’s defences, which I took to headquarters, and a copy
of which I have inserted in these memoirs. I had every reason to believe
that my report was satisfactory. I then went back to discourse with Jack
over my adventures. You may see hanging framed in my library, and below
General von Knyphausen’s sword, a letter which an orderly brought to me
the next day:
“Sir: It would be an impropriety to mention in general orders a service
such as you have rendered. To do so might subject you to greater peril,
or to ill treatment were you to fall into the hands of the enemy. I
needed no fresh proof of your merit to bear it in remembrance. No one can
feel more sensibly the value of your gallant conduct, or more rejoice for
your escape.
“I have the honour to be
“Your obed(t) Hum(e) Serv(t),
“G(e) Washington.
“To Lieut. Hugh Wynne, etc.”
[Transcriber’s Note: A hand-drawn map is placed at this point in the
print copy. It depicts such locations as “Bartram’s garden,” “Mr.
Hamilton,” “The Wooodlands,” “Schuylkill River,” “Middle Ferry,” “Blue
Hills,” “Wind Mill Island,” “Delaware River,” etc.]
This was writ in his own hand, as were many of his letters, even such
as were of great length. The handwriting betrays no mark of haste, and
seems penned with such exactness as all his correspondence shows. It may
be that he composed slowly, and thus of need wrote with no greater speed
than his thought permitted. I at least found it hard to explain how, in
the midst of affairs, worried, interrupted, distracted, he does at no
time show in his penmanship any sign of haste.
When I handed this letter to Jack I could not speak for a moment, and
yet I was never much the victim of emotion. My dear Jack said it was not
enough. For my own part, a captain’s commission would not have pleased
me as well. I ran no risk which I did not bring upon myself by that
which was outside of my duty; and as to this part of my adventure, I
told no one but Jack, being much ashamed of the weakness which came
so near to costing me not only my life, but--what would have been
worse--the success of my errand.