“Mr. Harrison, fetch me Captain Wynne’s papers.” A moment later he sat
down again, wrote the free signature, “Geo(e) Washington,” at the foot
of a parchment, and gave it to me, saying, “That boy Hamilton has been
troubling me for a month about this business. The commission is but now
come to hand from Congress. You will report, at your early convenience,
as major, to the colonel of the Third Pennsylvania foot; I hope it will
gratify your aunt. Ah, Colonel Hamilton,” for here the favourite aide
entered, “I have just signed Mr. Wynne’s commission.” Then he put a hand
affectionately on the shoulder of the small, slight figure. “You will
see that the orders are all given for the execution at noon. Not less
than eighty files from each wing must attend. See that none of my staff
be present, and that this house be kept closed to-morrow until night. I
shall transact no business that is not such as to ask instant attention.
See, in any case, that I am alone from eleven until one. Good-evening,
Mr. Wynne; I hope that you will shortly honour me with your company at
dinner. Pray, remember it, Mr. Hamilton.”
I bowed and went out, overcome with the kindliness of this great and
noble gentleman.
“He likes young men,” said Hamilton to me long afterward. “An old
officer would have been sent away with small comfort.”
It was now late in the night, and, thinking to compose myself, I walked
up and down the road and at last past the Dutch church, and up the hill
between rows of huts and rarer tents. It was a clear, starlit night, and
the noises of the great camp were for the most part stilled. A gentle
slope carried me up the hill, back of Andre’s prison, and at the top I
came out on a space clear of these camp homes, and stood awhile under
the quiet of the star-peopled sky. I lighted my pipe with help of flint
and steel, and, walking to and fro, set myself resolutely to calm the
storm of trouble and helpless dismay in which I had been for two weary
days. At last, as I turned in my walk, I came on two upright posts with
a cross-beam above. It was the gallows. I moved away horror-stricken,
and with swift steps went down the hill and regained Jack’s quarters.
Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October I shall say very
little. A too early death never took from earth a more amiable and
accomplished soldier. I asked and had leave to stand by the door as he
came out. He paused, very white in his scarlet coat, smiled, and said,
“Thank you, Wynne; God bless you!” and went on, recognising with a bow
the members of the court, and so with a firm step to his ignoble death.
As I had promised, I fell in behind the sad procession to the top of
the hill. No fairer scene could a man look upon for his last of earth.
A long range of hills rose to the northward. On all sides near and
far, was the [Transcriber’s Note: 1-2 words are illegible] of the
autumn-tinted woods, and to west the land swept downward past the
headquarters to where the cliffs rose above the Hudson. I can see it all
now--the loveliness of nature, the waiting thousands, mute and pitiful.
I shut my eyes and prayed for this passing soul. A deathful stillness
came upon the assembled multitude. I heard Colonel Scammel read the
sentence. Then there was the rumble of the cart, a low murmur broke
forth, and the sound of moving steps was heard. It was over. The great
assemblage of farmers and soldiers went away strangely silent, and many
in tears.
The effort I so earnestly desired to make for the capture of Arnold was
afterward made by Sergeant Champe, but failed, as all men now know. Yet
I am honestly of opinion that I should have succeeded.
Years afterward I was walking along the Strand in London, when, looking
up, I saw a man and woman approaching. It was Arnold with his wife.
His face was thin and wasted, a countenance writ over with gloom and
disappointment. His masculine vigour was gone. Cain could have borne
no plainer marks of vain remorse. He looked straight before him. As I
crossed the way, with no desire to meet him, I saw the woman look up at
him, a strange, melancholy sweetness in the pale, worn face of our
once beautiful Margaret. Her love was all that time had left him; poor,
broken, shunned, insulted, he was fast going to his grave. Where now he
lies I know not. Did he repent with bitter tears on that gentle breast?
God only knows. I walked on through the crowded street, and thought of
the words of my great chief, “There is a God who punishes the traitor.”