“Not quite. If it chance that no officer appears to meet you at Amboy,
you will return at once.”
Very glad of relief from the routine of rather distasteful duties, I
rode away at dawn the next day up the Bristol road. I was stopped, as
I supposed I should be, by a small band of Tory partisans, but after
exhibiting my British pass I was permitted to proceed. Between Trenton
and Amboy I met a party of our own horse, and had some trouble until I
allowed their leader, a stupid lout, to read my open despatch, when he
seemed satisfied, and sent on two troopers with me, whom I left near
Amboy.
At the inn I waited a day, when a ketch appeared, and an officer,
stepping ashore, came up from the beach to meet me. I saw, as he drew
near, that it was Arthur Wynne.
“Glad to see you,” he cried, in a quite hearty way. “It is an unexpected
pleasure. Andre was to have come, but he is ill. He desires his regards
and particular compliments.”
Was I always to meet this man when I was so hampered that to have my
will of him was out of the question? I said the meeting could not be
unexpected, or how could Andre have known? At this I saw him look a bit
queer, and I went on to add that the pleasure was all on his side.
“I am sorry,” he returned.
Not caring to hear further, I said abruptly: “Let us proceed to
business. Here is a despatch for Sir Henry. Have you any letter for me!”
“None,” he replied.
“Then I am free to go.”
“Pardon me; not yet,” he said. “I beg that for once you will hear what I
in person have to say. I have been greatly misrepresented.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. Pray be patient. I meant to write to you, but that has been
difficult, as you know.”
“Of course. And what have you to say, sir?”
“You have misunderstood me. There have been reasons of difference
between us which, I am happy to say, are at an end for me.” He meant as
to Darthea. “I made a mistake in the prison such as any man might have
made. I have been sorry ever since. I made an effort to arrest you in
the garden; I did my duty, and was glad you escaped. If you are not
satisfied, a time may come when I can put myself at your disposal. Our
present service and our relationship make me hope that you may never
desire it.”
He was quiet, cool, and perfectly master of himself. It did not suit him
to have a break with me, and I well knew why. It would end all chance of
his future intercourse with my father, and why he did not wish this to
happen I now knew pretty well.
I said, “Mr. Wynne, the arrest is a small matter. Thanks to Miss
Peniston and to Major Andre, it came to nothing.” At my use of Darthea’s
name I saw him frown, and I went on:
“You have lied about the prison, sir. If Mr. Delaney, who heard you ask
my name, were here, I should long ago have exposed you and your conduct
to all who cared to hear. You were shrewd enough to provide against the
possibility of my telling my own story. I can only hope, at no distant
day, to have the means of unmasking a man who--why, I know not--has
made himself my enemy. Then, sir, and always I shall hope to ask of you
another form of satisfaction.”
“Cousin Hugh,” he returned, “I shall be able to prove to you and to Mr.
Delaney, when he can be found, that you are both mistaken. I trust
that you will not for so slight a reason see fit to disturb my pleasant
relations with your father.” They were, I thought, profitable as well as
pleasant.
“I shall use my judgment,” said I.
“I am sorry. I hoped for a more agreeable ending to our talk.
Good-evening.” And he walked away.
Before nightfall of the day after I was again at home, and had made my
report, little dreaming of the innocent part I had played in a sorrowful
drama, nor how great was the risk I had run. Concerning this I was not
made clear for many a day. I had carried a letter which was not what it
seemed to be, but was really a means of satisfying Clinton that Arnold
intended to betray us, and had accepted his terms. Had this been known
when the great treason came, I should no doubt have got into serious
difficulties. The unreasoning storm of anger which followed General
Arnold’s treachery spared no one who was in any way involved, and no
appearance of innocence would have saved even so loyal and blameless a
soldier as I from certain disgrace.
I have at times wondered that a man to outward seeming so kindly and so
plainly attached to me as Arnold apparently was should have used me
for such an errand; but he who could value lightly the respect and
friendship of Washington and Schuyler may have had few scruples as to
the perils to which he might expose a simple officer like myself. Who
bore his later missives no one knows. I have never thought, as some
do, that any Eve was active in the temptation which led to the dark
treachery of the saddest hour of that weary war. Arnold’s first downward
step was taken months before he knew Margaret Shippen, as Sir Henry
Clinton’s papers have now most clearly shown.
Of my personal regret as to Arnold’s disgrace I have said little in
these pages, and shall say but little more. His generosity may have been
but a part of his lavishness in all directions; but this was he who for
years cared liberally for the destitute children of his friend Warren
after his death at Bunker Hill; and this was he who, as Schuyler has
told me, saved the life of the soldier who had just shot him on the
field at Saratoga. Surely the good and the bad are wonderfully mingled
in our humanity!
Early in June of ‘79, and after repeated requests on my part to rejoin
my regiment, I received orders to report to the colonel in command of
the Third Pennsylvania foot, then lying at Ramapo, New York. I took
leave of my people, and, alas! of Darthea, and set out with a number of
recruits. I was glad indeed to be away. Darthea was clearly unhappy, and
no longer the gay enchantress of unnumbered moods; neither did my home
life offer me comfort or affection.
If, however, I looked for activity in the army, I was greatly mistaken.
Sir Henry held New York; our own people had the Jerseys. A great chain
of forts limited the movements of the British on the Hudson. Our
general seemed to me to have a paralysing influence on whatever British
commander was matched against him. As it had been with Gage in Boston
and with Howe in Philadelphia, so was it now with Clinton in New York.
From Danbury in Connecticut to Elizabeth in New Jersey, a thin line
watched the pent-up enemy, who to seaward was guarded by a great fleet.
North of the Potomac he held New York alone, but on the frontier a
savage contest raged, and in the South the war everywhere went against
us.
Occasional skirmishes, incessant drill, and a life of expedients to
shelter, clothe, and feed my men, filled the tedious winter of ‘79 and
‘80, but affords me nothing of interest to add to the story of my life.
In August General Arnold passed through our forces to take command
of the forts at West Point, having declined a command in the field on
account, as he said, of continued suffering from his wounded leg. I fear
it was a mere pretence.
We were lying about Middlebrook, New Jersey, when, a few days later,
Colonel Alexander Hamilton came to my quarters, evidently much amused.
He said the videttes had captured a batch of letters, mostly of no
moment, but some too mischievous to be let to pass.
“Here,” he said, “is one which concerns you, Wynne. You need have no
scruple as to the reading of it. It has much entertained the mess of the
headquarters guard.”
He sat down with Jack and a pipe to keep off the Tory mosquitos, while
I fell to reading the letter. The same buzzing Tories were busy about me
also with bugle and beak, but when, as I glanced at the letter, I caught
Darthea’s name on the second page, I forgot them and hesitated. “Still,”
thought I, “others have read it, and it may be well that I should do
so.” It was no longer private. I went on to learn what it said. It was
from Miss Franks in New York to some young woman of her set in my own
city, but to whom was not clear, as an outer cover seemed to have been
lost or cast away.
“MY DEAR PUSSY,” it began: “I hope you will get this despite the rebels,
else you will lose much that is useful in the warfare with our dear
enemy, the unfair sex.” After this was an amusing record of the latest
modes and much about gowns, pincushion hoops, and face-patches. “Also
the gentlemen of New York wear two watches, which with you is not
considered genteel, and the admiral has introduced the fashion of dining
by candle-light at four. It is very becoming, I do assure you.
“How is the pretty boy-captain? Does he still blush?” This was clearly
Jack, but who was Pussy? “And Mr. Wynne--not Darthea’s Mr. Wynne, but
the perverted Quaker with the blue eyes?” It was plain who this was.
“Darthea’s captain--but I must not tell tales out of school;--indeed he
needs to be dealt with. Tell the witch if she _will_ stay among the R.
R.’s--which is what we call them--Ragged Rebels it is--she must look to
suffer. I am not as sure she does. Oh, these men! Between us, there is
a certain Olivia L--who is great friends with Mr. Wynne. She hath a
winning air of artless youth. I am pleased to hear from _my_ colonel,
whom you must soon know, that we shall soon be with you in our dear
Philadelphia, and Mr. G. W. hoeing tobacco, or worse, poor man. Dear me!
I have quite lost my way, and must look back.
“I can fancy Darthea weeping. She hath small need. It is my way to
love to tease whom I love, and the more I do love the more I do love to
tease. I cannot believe any would be false to Darthea? nor is he, I am
sure; but _thou_ dost know (as Mistress Wynne’s Captain Blushes
would word it. ‘Thou’ and ‘thee’ are sweet. I would I had a Quaker
lover)--_thou_ dost know that the she who is _here_ is always more
dangerous than the she who is _there_. That is Darthea, dear.
“I forgot to say stays is wore looser, which is a mercy; also the
garters _must_ be one red and one blue.”
When, amused, I read a bit to Jack, he declared we ought to read no
more, and if he had been of the mess which did read it, he would have
had reason out of some one. Indeed, he was angry-red, and beginning to
twitch in his queer way, so that I feared he would bring about a quarrel
with Mr. Hamilton, who knew neither woman and was still shaking with
laughter.
I liked it no better than Jack did, but he had said enough, and I shook
my head at Hamilton as I lay on the floor of the hut behind Jack.
Mr. Hamilton, who was a very model of good breeding, and despite his
vivacity never forgot what was due to others, said at once: “I ask
pardon, Mr. Warder. I did not know either of the ladies was known to
you. Had I been aware, no one should have read the letter.”
Then Jack said he had been hasty, and hoped Mr. Hamilton would excuse
him.
“There is nothing to excuse, Mr. Warder; but I must tell you the rest,
for it much delighted his Excellency. It is but a madcap account of how
Miss Franks tied our own colours all over Mr. Andre’s black poodle,
and let him loose at a ball the De Lanceys had in honour of Sir Henry
Clinton. Our Excellency says it is a pity we had not captured the fair
writer. That is as near to a jest as he ever comes, but he can enjoy our
staff nonsense for all his gravity. I leave you the letter; you may like
some day to deliver it. I hope we shall move soon. This camp life is
devilish dull. And here is the British mouse in a hole and won’t come
out, and our serious old cat a-watching. Lord, the patience of the man!
Come over and see us soon, Mr. Warder, and you too, Wynne.”
“I wish Miss Darthea had the letter. But she never can have it now,”
said I.
“Hardly,” says Jack, blushing sweetly. I think the garters were on his
mind.
Early in August Jack’s command was sent to join the army on the Hudson,
and, as I learned later, was camped with the bulk of our forces about
the former seat of the Tappan Indians, among the old Dutch farms. These
changes of troops from place to place were most perplexing to us, who
did not comprehend the game, and were now at Hartford, and a month later
at Elizabeth in the Jerseys. My own regiment had seen little service
beyond the Jersey line, and was willing enough to get out of reach of
those summer pests, the mosquitos. We were soon gratified.