He smiled, and that was the end of the matter. Fair women and brave men
were to his Excellency’s liking.
This was my last of active warfare. The marquis tried his hand at a
sally, and made ready too late to get away over the York River; but the
sally came to nothing, and the belated effort to run to still less.
I neglected to say that the French, having come to the abatis, waited
in line while the pioneers used their axes to clear it away. Meanwhile,
thanks to too good discipline, they suffered severely. As we rushed the
whole thing, we lost far less. “It was very fine and _en regle_,” said
Hamilton, “but I like our way better.” And so, I think, do I.
The good doctor liked to come to my staff tent in those days, to talk
to me or to others. He seemed to think it necessary to inform me of my
cousin’s state, and I dare say thought me cool about him.
“And if, doctor, I had stuck him through the left side?” said Jack,
lying at ease on a bearskin in my tent.
“In that case,” said our doctor, in a quite professional way, “the heart
or the great arteries had like enough been pierced.”
“And what then!” asked Jack of the doctor, who was sitting on the
camp-bed.
“Probably death would have occurred.”
On this Jack looked up with those innocent eyes, and, pushing back the
blond locks, said: “It is a great thing to know anatomy. If only I had
made a little study of that science, Dr. Rush, I might have had better
success at this pig-sticking business we call war.” The sly humour of
the fellow set Hamilton to laughing, but the doctor did not smile.
“It might have been better for Hugh’s cousin,” he said.
“Yes,” said Jack, sweetly; “perhaps.”
As they talked I was automatically putting into fine French a letter
of his Excellency to Comte d’Estaing, and I took in readily what was
passing. When Jack said, “Perhaps,” I cried out, “It would be a fine
thing, doctor, to have all this saving knowledge on both sides, so as to
know where not to hurt one another.”
Hamilton was on the side of Dr. Rush. “It were more to the purpose,”
he said, “to sit down and not to go to war at all.” This was set forth
demurely, the colonel seeing how serious a dose our fun was for the
great physician, who did somewhat lack the capacity to discover the
entertainment to be found in this manner of jesting.
He returned gravely that this was his opinion, and that had he his way,
war and drinking of spirits should alike cease.
To this we agreed in part as one man, for of war we were tired enough.
As to the other matter, we did not mention it. To think of such a
revolution was too astonishing in those days, nor have we come to it
yet.
After that the doctor discussed Arthur’s case with much learning and
evident satisfaction. I might like in a day or two to see Captain Wynne.
I was of opinion that it would do him harm, and when the great doctor
said, “Perhaps, perhaps,” Jack began discreetly to talk war, and asked
where was General Gates.
But by this time our doctor had become cautious. His favourite commander
was dismissed with a word or two, and so our chat ended, Mr. Hamilton
and the physician going away together, each pleased with the other, and,
despite some differences in politics, to remain lifelong friends.
On the 17th of October, the Marquis Cornwallis having had a stomach full
of fighting, and having failed of his schemes to get away across the
York River, beat a parley, and after some discussion signed the articles
of capitulation. The soldiers were to remain prisoners in Virginia and
Maryland, the officers were to return to Europe upon parole. The beaten
army at two on the 19th came down the road between the French and our
lines, with the colours in their cases, and the bands playing a British
march; for it is of the etiquette of such occasions that the captured
army play none but their own tunes. Some wag must have chose the air,
for they marched by to the good old English music of “The World Turned
Upside Down”; such must have seemed sadly the case to these poor devils.
As I was of the staff, I was privileged to see well this wonderful and
glorious conclusion of a mighty strife. Our chief sat straight in the
saddle, with a face no man could read, for in it was neither elation nor
show of satisfaction, as the sullen ranks came near.
At the head of the line rode General O’Hara. He paused beside our chief,
and begged his Excellency to receive the excuses of my Lord Cornwallis,
who was not well enough to be present, which no one believed nor thought
a manly thing to do.
His Excellency bowed, trusted it was not very serious, but would not
receive General O’Hara’s sword. With quiet dignity he motioned him to
deliver it to Major-General Lincoln, who now had these grateful amends
for the misfortune of having had to surrender his own good blade at
Charleston.
After this the long array of chagrined and beaten men went by, and,
returning to York, were put under guard.
A day or two later a letter of my aunt’s informed me of the disorder
my father’s condition had brought about on his tobacco-plantation in
Maryland. This caused me to ask for leave, and, with the understanding
that I might be recalled at any time, I received permission to be absent
two months.
I set out on November 5 for Annapolis, with two horses and my servant.
Arthur Wynne, being found unfit to go to Europe with the rest, was taken
a week later by our doctor on a transport to the Head of Elk, and thence
by coach to Philadelphia. There, as I heard, the doctor took him to
his own house, much amazed that Mistress Gainor would not receive him.
Arthur won the good doctor, as he did most people, and, despite all
expectations, was said to be mending fast, being much petted by the Tory
ladies; but if Darthea had seen him or not I did not then learn.
My affairs in Maryland, where we had many slaves and large interests,
kept me busy until near the close of December, when I set out to rejoin
the staff in Philadelphia, my leave being up.
During this winter of ‘81 and ‘82 my duties were light, and except to
write a few despatches daily, and to attend his Excellency on occasions
of festivity, I had little to do save to look after my father’s affairs.
It is now fit that I return to the narration of such things as
immediately concern my personal interests. Arthur Wynne was able to ride
out by the end of January, as I heard, for I did not chance to see him.
My father remained much as he had been for a year.
Darthea, to our great surprise, on Captain Wynne’s return became
desirous to yield to her aunt and to go to New York. My aunt said she
would get them a pass through our lines in the Jerseys; but this proving
difficult, they stayed in and about the city, spending much time at
their old home in Bristol. Darthea was so clearly unwilling to see me
that I was fain to give it up, and accept what I could not better. When
I said I was sorry she wished to go away, my Aunt Gainor replied that I
was a fool, and would never be anything else. I asked why, but she was
away from my question at once, and went on to tell me what officers were
to dine with her that day, and did his Excellency like Madeira? and
why was her doctor so fond of quoting Mr. Adams’s letters from Holland,
where he now was on a mission, with his nasty sneers at Virginians and
Mr. Washington? She gave me no time to reply. Indeed, this and much else
I saw or heard in those days was quite beyond me.
My aunt’s way of dismissing a question she liked not was to pour out
matters which were quite irrelevant, when to stop her was altogether
past hope. I had learned to wait. She, at my desire, made Jack her
aid in her affairs, as I was fully occupied with my father’s neglected
business. Now, too, she was busy finding Jack a wife, and would tell me
all about it, striding to and fro, and with vast shrewdness and humour
discussing the young women we knew.
“Cat” Ferguson was very humble, and the Chews in great favour with his
Excellency. I was fain to dismiss my wonder as to Darthea, and, unable
to recur to the question I had asked, I went away to headquarters in the
great Chew house in Third street.
The town was gone wild with feasting and dinners, and as the general
liked his staff to attend him, I had more of these engagements than I
cared about.
Arthur, still weak and on parole, lingered; but why he did not get
permission to go to New York, as had been easy, I could not well
understand.
In February, ‘82, I came home to my father’s one morning at an earlier
hour than usual, and to my surprise heard my cousin’s voice.
“I fear, sir, I am not understood. I came for the deed you promised me.”
My poor father, a huge, wasted framework of a big man, was looking at
him with lack-lustre eyes. He said, “My wife will be with us presently.
Wilt thou stay for dinner?”
I went in at once, saying, “I am more than amazed, sir, to see you here.
As to the deed you would have stolen--”
“What!” he cried.
“I said ‘stolen,’ sir. As to the deed you would have stolen from a man
too feeble in mind to guard his own property, I have only this to
say” (amid constant duties it had gone from my mind): “I shall put no
obstacle in the way of your seeing it.”
“I have no other purpose,” he said quietly--“none. To you I could not
go, and, sir, if you choose to consider my effort in any other light
than an honest one, I have no more to say. We have enough causes of
difference without that.”
“Quite enough,” said I. I was beginning to lose grip of my patience.
“Quite enough. That they were not settled long ago an accident alone
prevented.”
“I am not, sir, in a way fitly to answer you. Neither is this a place
nor a presence for this discussion.”
“At least we can agree as to that,” said I; “but I did not seek it. At
my own leisure I shall have to ask you certain questions which, as a
gentleman and a man of honour, you will find it hard to answer.”
“I fail to comprehend,” he returned, with his grand air, looking all the
better for his paleness.
I said it was not now needful that he should, and that in future he
would understand that he was no longer a welcome guest.
“As you please,” he said.
I thought he showed little anxiety to hear at length what was in my
mind.
Meanwhile, as we spoke, my father looked vacantly from me to him
and from him to me, and at last, his old hospitable instincts coming
uppermost, he said, “Thou hast not asked thy cousin to take spirits,
Hugh.”
Arthur, smiling sadly, as I thought, said: “Thank you, none for me.
Good-day, Cousin Wynne,” and merely bowing to me, he went out, I
ceremoniously opening the door.
I had said no more than I intended to say; I was resolutely bent upon
telling this man what he seemed to me to be and what I knew of his
baseness. To do this it was needful, above all, to find Delaney. After
that, whether Darthea married my cousin or not, I meant that she should
at last know what I knew. It was fair to her that some one should open
her eyes to this man’s character. When away from her, hope, the friend
of the absent, was ever with me; but once face to face with Darthea,
to think of her as by any possibility mine became impossible. Yet from
first to last I was firm in my purpose, for this was the way I was made,
and so I am to this day. But whether I had loved her or not, I should
have done my best out of mere friendship to set her free from the bonds
in which she was held.
I had heard of Delaney as being in the South, but whether he had come
out alive from the tussles between Morgan, Marion, and Tarleton, I knew
not. On asking Colonel Harrison, the general’s secretary, he told me he
thought he could discover his whereabouts. Next day he called to tell me
that there was an officer of the name of Delaney at the London Inn, now
called “The Flag,” on Front street, and that he had been asking for me.
I had missed him by five minutes. He had called with despatches from
Major-General Greene.
To my joy this proved to be the man I wanted, nor was it surprising that
he should thus luckily appear, since the war was over in the South, and
a stream of officers was passing through Philadelphia daily to join the
Northern army.
For a moment he did not know me, but was delighted when I named myself.
I said I had no time to lose, and asked him to meet me at my aunt’s in
the afternoon. I much feared that Arthur would get away before I was
ready to talk to him.
Delaney had received my last letter and had answered it, but whither his
reply went I cannot say. At all events, he had lingered here to find
me. When we met at my Aunt Gainor’s that afternoon, it took but a few
minutes to make clear to her the sad tale of Arthur’s visit to the jail.
My friend had no sooner done than the old lady rose, and began as usual
to walk about, saying: “You will excuse me; I must think of this. Talk
to Hugh.” What there was to think of I could not see.
Delaney looked on amused, and he and I chatted. She was evidently much
disturbed, and while the captain and I talked, I saw her move a chair,
and pick up and set down some china beast. At last she said: “Come in at
nine to-night, Mr. Delaney. I want to think this over. I have still much
I desire to ask you. It deeply concerns my nephew in a way I cannot now
explain to you. May I have the privilege of another half-hour?”
Delaney bowed.
“Of course I do not want you, Hugh,” she added.
When you have known a woman as long as I had known my aunt, there are
sometimes hints or warnings in her most casual expressions. When my
aunt said I was not wanted that evening I knew at once that she was
meditating something out of the common, but just what, I did not think
to ask myself. My Aunt Gainor was all her life fond of what she called
inventing chances, a fine phrase, of which she was proud. In fact, this
sturdy old spinster liked to interfere authoritatively in the affairs
of men and women, and believed that for this she had a special talent,
which in fact she discovered no inclination to bury; but what now she
had in hand to do I knew not.
She was deeply grieved for a season to find that her plans went awry,
or that men were disappointed, or that women would not go her way. “When
she hurts you,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “she is like a child, and has a
dozen silly devices for doctoring your wounds. We have fought many
times, and made up as often. There is no real malice in her,” which was
true.
Jack Warder once remarked in his lively way that Mistress Wynne had a
richly coloured character. I fear it may have looked at times very black
to some and very rose-tinted to others, but assuredly never gray in its
tones, nor other than positive.
With me she took all manner of liberties, and with Darthea too, and if
ever she were in doubt if it were well to meddle in our affairs I know
not. A vast richness of human love and an urgent desire of rule lay
underneath the life she showed the outer world of quadrille and dinners
and gossip.
When she hurt us, or, as Darthea said, broke her china in trying to wash
it, she fell back on our love with a quite childlike astonishment that
what was come out of affection should give rise to resentment.
With a slight puzzle in my mind I went away with Delaney to dine at the
London Coffee-house, which now showed our own new flag, where so often I
had passed in under the cross of St. George.
“We have a new St. George now,” said Mr. John Adams, in one of those
ill-natured letters to Dr. Rush which filled my aunt with rage. “_Sancte
Washington, ora pro nobis._” The Massachusetts statesman admired _our_
grave and knightly St. George, but there are those who cannot fly a kite
without the bobtail of a sneer--which is good wit, I think, but not my
own; it was Jack said that.
When Delaney left me to call again upon my aunt, I little dreamed of
what part she meant him to play. He left the town early next day, and
had it not been for Jack I should not for a long while have known fully
what an hour brought forth.
“On the afternoon of February 28 of this 1782,” says Jack’s diary, “I
got a note from Mistress Wynne asking me to see her on business at nine.
I found with her, to my pleasure, the good fellow Delaney, and was able
to thank him for the service he had done us all in his noble care of
Hugh. We talked over our battles, and presently comes in Darthea, whom
now we see but rarely, for reasons best known to herself.
“I do believe Hugh has given up his love-affair as a thing quite
hopeless, and no wonder. I think she still sees that rascal of an
English captain, and perhaps he will not have her keep up a closer
friendship with such as no longer desire his own acquaintance.
“Mr. Delaney was, like all men, charmed with Miss Peniston, and the talk
went on busily enough, the young woman in good spirits and the captain
most amusing.
“By and by he spoke quite naturally of the horrors of their life in the
provost’s prison, and upon this Darthea, becoming of a sudden seriously
attentive, listened with fixed gaze. Our hostess, seeing her chance,
said: ‘I meant to ask you more of that to-day, but my nephew hates even
to hear of it. How long were you there?’
“‘I was taken at Germantown like Mr. Wynne, and was kept until June.
After Wynne nearly killed that rascal, Cunningham, things were worse
than ever.’
“‘And was Hugh so very ill?’
“‘He could not have been worse to live at all.’
“‘And was there no inspection amidst all those horrors? Do you suppose
Sir William knew nothing of them? I can hardly credit that.’
“Darthea looked round at Mistress Wynne. She had been unusually silent.
Now turning to Delaney, she said, with slow articulation: ‘I also am
curious, Mr. Delaney. We heard many rumours and some unpleasant facts.
Could Sir William Howe have known? I cannot think it.’
“‘But he must, after the inspections, and there were three to my
knowledge.’
“‘Indeed!’ said Mistress Wynne. ‘’T is most strange!’
“Delaney hesitated, not liking, I suppose, to mention Arthur, her
cousin, of whose close relation to Darthea, however, he was not aware.
“‘And one,’ Mistress Wynne went on, ‘was, I hear, made by our kinsman.’
“‘Yes,’ said Delaney, ‘and that did certainly amaze me. Captain Wynne--’
“‘Captain Wynne!’ exclaimed Darthea, and, turning her head, she looked
sharply at Mistress Wynne and then at me. I think that Delaney, being
unfamiliar with her habits of speech, did not notice how strange was the
tone in which she added, ‘We all know Mr. Arthur Wynne.’
“‘Indeed!’ said Delaney; ‘but of course I might have known that.’
“‘Yes, yes! I interrupted you. Pray, go on; it is most interesting.’
“‘Very,’ said Mistress Wynne. And now I saw what a wicked trap our
spinster-fox had laid for poor Darthea. Delaney, a bit puzzled, glanced
at me. I made no sign. It must not stop here.
“‘It is a queer story, Miss Peniston, and not much to the credit of his
Majesty’s officers.’
“‘What next?’ said Darthea.
“‘Oh, the tale is brief and brutal. I was seated on the straw one day,
with Hugh’s head in my lap, putting water on his forehead and trying
to quiet him, when the turnkey came in with an English officer. This
gentleman looked about him at the few left alive, asked carelessly who
broke the window-panes, and then suddenly seemed to notice Hugh. He
asked who was this poor devil. The turnkey said, “Name of Wynne,
sir.” Then the captain stood still a moment, staring at us, and, as if
curious, bent down, asking me what Hugh was saying. Now my poor friend
was muttering over and over, “Dorothea! Dorothea!”--some woman’s name, I
suppose, but what woman he never told me.’
“At this I saw Darthea flush, but perhaps remembering that Mr. Delaney
might know her only as Miss Peniston, which was the fact, she controlled
herself and said quickly: ‘He asked his name? Are you sure he asked his
name? Could there have been no mistake?’
“Delaney looked the surprise he no doubt felt, and replied, ‘Yes; of
that I am sure.’
“‘Do you think,’ said Darthea, ‘he knew how ill Mr. Hugh Wynne was?’
“‘Certainly; I heard the turnkey tell him that a day or two would see
Hugh in the potter’s field with the rest. The doctor had said as much.
This was true; he had told me it was useless for him to return, and
indeed I thought so too. They buried a half-dozen a day. When told that
this man Wynne had jail-fever, the captain seemed in haste to leave. At
the door lie turned and took another look at Hugh, and then went out. I
asked his name next day, but the turnkey laughed, and said it was none
of my business. I had a fancy that the inspector desired to remain
unknown. I was sure of this when, a few days after, I described the
officer to Hugh, who was then quite himself. When Hugh said at last,
“Had he a scar over the left eye!” and I said he had, Hugh cried out in
a rage that it was his cousin, and would talk of nothing else for days.
I fear there can be no doubt that the inspecting officer was Captain
Arthur Wynne.’
“‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Mistress Wynne. ‘Incredible!’
“‘Yes; it seems to me a quite inconceivable thing, but I am certain,
though the man looked a gentleman all over.’
“‘He looked a gentleman all over,’ said Darthea, with strange
deliberateness of speech.
“This while Mistress Wynne sat drawn up, her face set, and one hand
moving on the arm of the chair, just the same queer trick her brother
had. As for me, I watched Darthea. It was a merciless plot, and may have
been needed; but in truth the way of it was cruel, and my heart bled for
her I loved.
“As she spoke her tones were so strange that Mr. Delaney, who was
clearly but an innocent though sharp tool, said: ‘I beg pardon, Miss
Peniston. These sad stories are too dreadful to repeat. Miss Wynne would
have it--’
“But Darthea was now quite lost to the common ways of life. She went on
like a person questioning herself, as it sounded to me. ‘Arthur Wynne
asked his name. Is that so?’
“Delaney said, ‘Yes,’ now, as I saw, quite troubled, and wishing himself
out of it, I dare say.
“‘And he knew he was in rags, starved, dying, and he left him?’
continued Darthea, ‘He left him--to die.’
“‘Yes; but--’
“‘No matter. I must hear all--all!’ she cried sharply--‘all! I am the
person most concerned.’
“‘Darthea!’ then exclaimed Miss Wynne, alarmed, I suppose, at her wild
manner and breaking voice.
“But Darthea went on. ‘This is my business, madam. You are sure, sir?
This is no time to trifle. I--I am--I must know! I must know! Would you
say this to Captain Wynne were he here? Answer me, sir!’
“‘Certainly I would, Miss Peniston.’
“‘Mistress Wynne,’ said Darthea, rising, ‘I have been brought here to
let a stranger see my--my weakness. It is plain. Did you think I could
hide it, madam? Pardon me, sir. You have done me a cruel service. I--I
thank you. I bid you good-evening, Mistress Wynne. Was there no other
way, no kinder way, to tell me? Will you take me home, Jack? I--I am
tired.’
“We had all risen with her at the beginning of this last speech, I
troubled, Miss Wynne very red, and only fit to say over and over,
‘Darthea! Darthea!’ Mr. Delaney annoyed, and lacking knowledge of the
situation; all of us awkward and confused save Darthea, who passed out
into the hall, followed by Miss Wynne, and saying, as she went forth, ‘I
will never forgive you, madam, never! never! You are a wicked old woman!
I shall never speak to you again. I did not think it.’
“I walked in silence beside her to Mrs. Peniston’s home. ‘Thank you,
Jack,’ said she, in a sweet, low voice. ‘You did not know, did you, of
this sad story?’
“‘Yes, dear lady, but of this disgusting plot, no.’
“‘But why did you, who are my friend, and Mr. Hugh Wynne, and all of
you, leave me in the dark as to this--this man?’
“I said quickly that it was not well to have told her until Mr. Delaney
could be found. He had but just now come. She had seemed to trust
Captain Wynne’s story; Hugh’s was but the hearsay of a man just out of a
deadly fever. We had waited.
“As I spoke, she stood with her calash bonnet fallen back, clear to see
by the full moonlight, and looking with intent face across Arch street,
as it might be with envy of the untroubled dead of generations who lay
around the meeting-house. As I ended, she said:
“‘I have been a fool, Jack, but I loved him; indeed I did. Is there
more? I know Hugh hates him. Is there more?’
“‘Too much, too much, Darthea,’ I said.
“‘Then come in. I must hear all--all.’ And she knocked impatiently.
“Presently we were in the parlour. ‘Fetch a light,’ she said to the
black who opened for us. When we were alone and seated, she said
quietly: ‘Jack, you are my only friend. I do trust _you_--oh, entirely.
Now what is it? I must know all. Why has Hugh Wynne been silent? It is
not like him.’
“‘I have already told you why. Partly because, Darthea, you were away,
or would not see us. That you know. Partly because Hugh had only his own
word to give; but this I have told you.’
“‘Yes, yes,’ she cried; ‘but what else?’
“‘I think,’ said I, ‘knowing him well, that Hugh meant, when once he had
Delaney’s evidence, to tell his cousin face to face, and so force him to
release you.’
“‘That is my business, not his,’ she broke in. ‘What has Hugh Wynne to
do with it! Am I a child?’
“‘It had been the kinder and the manlier way,’ said I. ‘Now there is no
need; but Hugh will be furious with his aunt.’
“‘I am glad of that. What else is there? You are hiding something.’
“‘There was that scene in the garden, Darthea.’
“She coloured at this. ‘Yes, I know; but there were reasonable excuses
for that, and no one had time to think.’
“‘Two people had, Darthea.’
“‘We will let that pass, Jack. Don’t play with me.’
“Then, driven to the wall, so to speak, I told her of the sad revelation
Andre had made to Hugh, and how, being Hugh’s enemy, Arthur had been
base enough to involve him in an affair which might have been his ruin.
“‘Yes, yes,’ she said, ‘I see; but who could know, or who think to use
such knowledge?’
“I was taken aback at her seeming to have any doubt. I coldly set myself
to tell her of Arthur’s double dealing about the estate, and of how he
had made Hugh’s father believe he was minded to consider the ways of
Friends, and at last of how he had borrowed money and had set poor
Hugh’s half-demented father against him. I did not spare her or him, and
the half of what I said I have not set down. The Arnold business I did
return to, seeing that it struck her, or seemed to, less than it did me;
for to my mind it was the worst.
“‘Darthea,’ I said, ‘how could a man of honour or even of good feeling
put any gentleman in such peril of worse than death? There were Tories
enough to have done his shameful errand. But oh, dear Darthea, to
suggest to send on such business an open, frank enemy,--his cousin
too,--that was too bad for the lowest and vilest!’
“‘Hush!’ she said, ‘I know enough. You have been both brave and good.
You are the best man I know, Jack Warder, and the kindest. I wish I
loved you. I am not worthy of you. Now go away.’
“I obeyed her, and this was so far the end of a miserable affair. What
Hugh will say to Miss Wynne, God knows. I have given a thorough rascal
his dues; but I cannot do this and not tell him to his face what I have
said behind his back.
“This was at night, but I had no better counsel in the morning.
“I went to find Mr. Delaney, but he was gone, having, as I heard later,
put on paper what he had seen and heard in the Provostry.”