“You seem to know your own mind, Mr. Wynne. There will be more hard
knocks and more glory.”
I thought so too, but I was now again in the full vigour of health, and
an appointment in the foot would, as I hoped, bring me nearer to Jack.
And now joy and excitement reigned throughout the camps. The news was
true. On the 18th of June Sir Henry Clinton, having gotten ready by
sending on in advance his guns and baggage, cleverly slipped across
the Delaware, followed by every Tory who feared to remain; some three
thousand, it was said.
Long before dawn we of McLane’s light horse were in the saddle. As we
passed Chestnut Hill I fell out to tell my aunt the good news. I was
scarce gone by before she began to make ready to follow us. As we pushed
at speed through Germantown, it became sure that the evacuation had been
fully accomplished. We raced down Front street at a rate which seemed
reckless to me. McLane gave no orders, but galloped on ahead in his
usual mad way. The townsfolk were wild with Joy. Women stood in tears
as we went by; men cheered us and the boys hurrahed. At Arch and Front
streets, as we pulled up, I saw a poor little cornet come out of a house
half bewildered and buttoning his red jacket. I pushed Lucy on to the
sidewalk and caught him by the collar. He made a great fuss and had
clearly overslept himself. I was hurriedly explaining, amid much
laughter, when McLane called out, “A nice doll-baby! Up with him!” And
away he went, behind a trooper. At Third street bridge were two other
officers who must have been tipsy overnight and have slept too late. At
last, with our horses half dead, we walked them back to Front and High
streets, and got off for a rest and a mug of beer at the coffee-house.
Soon came a brigade of Virginians, and we marched away to camp on the
common called Centre Square.
The streets were full of huzzaing crowds. Our flags, long hid, were
flying. Scared tradesmen were pulling down the king’s arms they had set
over their signs. The better Tory houses were closed, and few of this
class were to be seen in the streets.
Major-General Arnold followed after us. Unable, because of his wound, to
accept a command in the field, he took up his abode as commandant of the
city in Mr. Morris’s great house at the northeast corner of Front and
High streets. I saw this gallant soldier in May, at the time he joined
the camp at the Forge, when he was handsomely cheered by the men. He was
a man dark and yet ruddy, soldierly looking, with a large nose, and not
unlike his Excellency as to the upper part of his face. He was still on
crutches, being thin and worn from the effects of the hurt he received
at Saratoga.
As soon as possible I left the troop and rode away on Lucy down High
street to Second and over the bridges to my home.
I was no longer the mere lad I had left it. Command of others, the
leisure for thought in the camp, the sense that I had done my duty well,
had made of me a resolute and decisive man. As I went around to the
stables in the rear of the house it seemed to me as if I must in a
minute see those blue eyes, and hear the pretty French phrases of tender
love which in times of excitement used to rise to my mother’s lips. It
is thus as to some we love. We never come to feel concerning them that
certainty of death which sets apart from us forever others who are gone.
To this day a thought of her brings back that smiling face, and she
lives for me the life of eternal remembrance.
No one was in the stable when I unsaddled the tired mare. At the kitchen
door the servants ran out with cries of joy. With a word I passed them,
smelling my father’s pipe in the hall, for it was evening, and supper
was over.
He rose, letting his pipe drop, as I ran to fall on his great chest, and
pray him to pardon, once for all, what I had felt that it was my duty to
do. I was stayed a moment as I saw him. He had lost flesh continually,
and his massive build and unusual height showed now a gaunt and sombre
man, with clothes too loose about him. I thought that his eyes were
filling, but the habits of a life controlled him.
He held to a chair with his left hand, and coldly put out the right to
meet my eager grasp, I stood still, my instinct of tenderness checked. I
could only repeat, “Father, father, I have come home.”
“Yes,” he said, “thou hast come home. Sit down.”
I obeyed. Then he stooped to pick up his pipe, and raising his strong
gray head, looked me over in perfect silence.
“Am I not welcome,” I cried, “in my mother’s home? Are we always to be
kept apart? I have done what, under God, seemed to me His will. Cannot
you, who go your way so steadily, see that it is the right of your son
to do the same? You have made it hard for me to do my duty. Think as
seems best to you of what I do or shall do, but have for me the charity
Christ teaches. I shall go again, father, and you may never see me more
on earth. Let there be peace between us now. For my mother’s sake, let
us have peace. If I have cost you dear, believe me, I owe to you such
sad hours as need never have been. My mother--she--”
During this outburst he heard me with motionless attention, but at my
last word he raised his hand. “I like not thy naming of thy mother. It
has been to me ever a reproach that I saw not how far her indulgence was
leading thee out of the ways of Friends. There are who by birthright are
with us, but not of us--not of us.”
This strange speech startled me into fuller self-command. I remembered
his strange dislike to hear her mentioned. As he spoke his fingers
opened and shut on the arms of the chair in which he sat, and here and
there on his large-featured face the muscles twitched.
“I will not hear her named again,” he added. “As for thee, my son, this
is thy home. I will not drive thee out of it.”
“Drive me out!” I exclaimed. I was horror-struck.
“And why not! Since thou wert a boy I have borne all things:
drunkenness, debauchery, blood-guiltiness, rebellion against those whom
God has set over us, and at last war, the murder of thy fellows.”
I was silent. What could I say! The words which came from my heart
had failed to touch him. He had buried even the memory of my mother. I
remembered Aunt Gainor’s warnings as to his health, and set myself at
once to hear and reply with gentleness.
He went on as if he knew my thought: “I am no longer the man I was. I am
deserted by my son when I am in greatest need of him. Had it not pleased
God to send me for my stay, in this my loneliness, thy Cousin Arthur, I
should have been glad to rest from the labours of earth.”
“Arthur! My cousin!”
“I said so. He has become to me as a son. It is not easy for one brought
up among dissolute men to turn away and seek righteousness, but he hath
heard as thou didst never hear, nor wouldst. He hath given up dice
and cards, and hath asked of me books such as Besse’s ‘Sufferings’ and
George Fox’s ‘Testimony.’”
This was said so simply and in such honest faith that I could not resist
to smile.
“I did not ask thee to believe me,” said my father, sharply; “and if
because a man is spiritually reminded and hath stayed to consider his
sin, it is for thee but cause of vain mirth, I will say no more. I have
lost a son, and found one. I would it had been he whom I lost that is
now found.”
I answered gravely, “Father, the man is a hypocrite. He saw me dying a
prisoner in jail, starved and in rags. He left me to die.”
“I have heard of this. He saw some one about to die. He thought he was
like thee.”
“But he heard my name.”
“That cannot be. He said it was not thee. He said it!”
“He lied; and why should he have ever mentioned the matter to thee--as
indeed he did to others--except for precaution’s sake, that if, as
seemed unlike enough, I got well, he might have some excuse? It seems to
me a weak and foolish action, but none the less wicked.”
My father listened, but at times with a look of being puzzled. “I do not
think I follow thy argument, Hugh,” he said, “neither does thy judgment
of the business seem favoured by that which I know of thy cousin.”
“Father, that man is my enemy. He hates me because--because Darthea is
my friend, and but for her I should have rotted in the jail, with none
to help me.”
“Thy grandfather lay in Shrewsbury Gate House a year for a better cause,
and as for thy deliverance. I heard of it later. It did seem to Arthur
that the young woman had done more modestly to have asked his help than
to have been so forward.”
My father spoke with increase of the deliberateness at all times one
of his peculiarities, which seemed to go well with the bigness of his
build. This slowness in talk seemed now to be due in part to a slight
trouble in finding the word he required. It gave me time to observe
how involved was the action of his mind. The impression of his being
indirect and less simple than of old was more marked as our talk went
on than I can here convey by any possible record of what he said. I only
succeeded in making him more obstinate in his belief, as was always the
case when any opposed him. Yet I could not resist adding: “If, as you
seem to think, Arthur is my friend, I would you could have seen his face
when at that silly Mischianza he caught me in disguise.”
“Did he not do his duty after thy creed and his?”
“It was not that, father. Some men might have hesitated even as to the
duty. Mr. Andre did not help him, and his debt to us was small. Had
I been taken I should have swung as a spy on the gallows in Centre
Square.”
“And yet,” said my father, with emphatic slowness, “he would have done
his duty as he saw it.”
“And profited by it also,” said I, savagely.
“There is neither charity nor yet common sense in thy words, Hugh. If
thou art to abide here, see that thy ways conform to the sobriety and
decency of Friends. I will have no cards nor hard drinking.”
“But good heavens! father, when have I ever done these things here, or
indeed anywhere, for years?”
His fingers were again playing on the arms of Mr. Penn’s great chair,
and I made haste to put an end to this bewildering talk.
“I will try,” I said, “to live in such a way as shall not offend. Lucy
is in the stable, and I will take my old room. My Aunt Gainor is to be
in town to-morrow.”
“I shall be pleased to see her.”
“And how is the business, father?” I said. “There are no ships at sea,
I hope. The privateers are busy, and if any goods be found that may have
been for use of the king’s people, we might have to regret a loss.”
“_I_ might,” he returned sharply. “I am still able to conduct my own
ventures.”
“Of course, sir,” I said hastily, wondering where I could find any
subject which was free from power to annoy him. Then I rose, saying,
“There is an early drill. I shall have to be on hand to receive General
Arnold. I shall not be back to breakfast. Good-night.”
“Farewell,” he said. And I went upstairs with more food for thought than
was to my liking. I had hoped for a brief season of rest and peace, and
here was whatever small place I held in my father’s heart filled by my
cousin.
When, not long after, for mere comfort, I had occasion to speak to
the great Dr. Rush of my father, he said that when the brain became
enfeebled men were apt to assign to one man acts done by another, and
that this did explain the latter part of my father’s talk about cards
and drinking. Also he said that with defect of memory came more or less
incapacity to reason, since for that a man must be able to assemble past
events and review them in his memory. Indeed, he added, certain failures
of remembrance might even permit a good man to do apparent wrong, which
seemed to me less clear. The good doctor helped me much, for I was
confused and hurt, seeing no remedy in anything I could do or say.
I lit the candles in my old room and looked about me. My cousin had,
it appeared, taken up his abode in my own chamber, and this put me out
singularly; I could hardly have said why. The room was in the utmost
confusion. Only that morning Arthur Wynne had left it. Many of the
lazier officers had overslept themselves, as I have said, and came near
to being quite left behind. Lord Cosmo Gordon, in fact, made his escape
in a skiff just before we entered.
The bed was still not made up, which showed me how careless our slaves
must have become. The floor was litered with torn paper, and in a
drawer, forgot in Arthur’s hurry, were many bills, paid and unpaid, some
of which were odd enough; also many notes, tickets for the Mischianza,
theatre-bills, portions of plays,--my cousin was an admirable actor
in light parts,--and a note or two in Darthea’s neat writing. I had no
hesitation in putting them all on the hearth.
There was nothing in me to make me take advantage of what I found. I
kept the Mischianza tickets, and that was all, I have them yet. On the
table were Fox’s “Apology,” “A Sweet Discourse to Friends,” by William
Penn, and the famous “Book of Sufferings.” In the latter was thrust a
small, thin betting-tablet, such as many gentlemen then carried. Here
were some queer records of bets more curious than reputable. I recall
but two: “Mr. Harcourt bets Mr. Wynne five pounds that Miss A. will wear
red stockings at the play on May 12th. Won, A. Wynne. They were blue,
and so was the lady.” “A. W. bets Mr. von Speiser ten pounds that he
will drink four quarts of Madeira before Mr. von S. can drink two; Major
de Lancey to measure the wine. Lost, A. W. The Dutch pig was too much
for me.”
Wondering what Darthea or my father would think of these follies, I
tossed the books and the betting-tablet on the pile of bills on the
hearth, I have since then been shown in London by General Burgoyne the
betting-book at Brooks’s Club. There are to be seen the records of still
more singular bets, some quite abominable; but such were the manners of
the day. My cousin, as to this, was like the rest.
In a closet were cast-off garments and riding-boots. I sent for Tom, and
bade him do with these as he liked; then I set fire to the papers on the
hearth, ordered the room put in order, and after a pipe in the orchard
went to bed.