THE gray morning finds the routed ones in their old camp by the St.
Lawrence. Colonel Arnold’s assault has also failed. The ex-apothecary
received a slight wound, and is vastly proud. It is his left arm that
was hurt, and of it he makes a mighty parade, slinging it in a rich
crimson sash.
Colonel Arnold, now in command, does not attempt another assault, but
contents himself with maneuvering his slender forces on the plain in
tantalizing view of the redcoat foe. He sends a flag of truce to the
foot of the walls, with a sprightly challenge to their defenders,
inviting them to come out and fight. The Quebec commander, being a
soldier and no mad knight errant, refuses to be thus romantic. The
winter is deepening; he will leave the vaporing Colonel Arnold to fight
a battle with the thermometer. Also, General Burgoyne, at the head of an
army, is pointed that way.
His maneuverings ignored, his challenge declined, Colonel Arnold puts
in an entire night framing a demand for the instant surrender of Quebec.
This he is at pains to couch in terms of insult, peppering it from top
to bottom with biting taunts. He closes with a threat that, should the
English commander fail to lower his flag, he will conquer the city at
the point of the sword, and put the garrison to disgraceful death by
gibbet and halter. When he has completed this precious manifesto, he
seeks out young Aaron, and commands him to carry it in person to the
city’s gates. As Colonel Arnold tenders the letter, young Aaron puts his
hands behind him.
“Before I take it, sir,” says he, “I should like to hear it read.”
Young Aaron’s contempt for the ex-apothecary has found increase with
every day since the death of Montgomery. Those braggadocio maneuverings,
the foolish challenge to come out and fight, have filled him with
disgust. They shock by stress of their innate cheap vulgarity. He is of
no mind to lend himself to any kindred buffoonery.
“Do you refuse my orders, sirrah?” cries Colonel Arnold, falling into a
dramatic fume.
“I refuse nothing! I say that I shall carry no letter until I know its
contents. I warn you, sir, I am not to be ‘ordered,’ as you call it,
into a false position by any man alive.”
Young Aaron’s face is getting white; there is a dangerous sparkle in
the black ophidian eyes. Colonel Arnold reads these symptoms, and draws
back. Still, he maintains a ruffling front.
“Sir!” says he haughtily; “you should think on your subordinate rank,
and on your youth, before you pretend to overlook my conduct.”
“My subordinate rank shall not detract from my quality as a gentleman.
As for my youth, I shall prove old enough, I trust, to make safe my
honor. I say again, I’ll not touch your letter till I hear it read.”
“Remember, sir, to whom you speak!”
“I shall remember what I mentioned at the Eagle Inn; I shall remember my
self-respect.”
Colonel Arnold fixes young Aaron with a superior stare. If it be meant
for his confusion, it meets failure beyond hope. The black eyes stare
back with so much of iron menace in them, as to disconcert the personage
of former drugs.
He feels them play upon him like two black rapier points. His assurance
breaks down; his lofty determination oozes away. With gaze seeking the
floor, his ruddy, wine-marked countenance flushes doubly red.
“Since you make such a swelter of the business,” he grumbles, “I, for my
own sake, shall now ask you to read it. I would have you know, sir,
that I understand the requirements as well as the proprieties of my
position.”
Colonel Arnold tears open the letter with a flourish, and gives it to
young Aaron. The latter reads it; and then, with no attempt to palliate
the insult, throws it on the floor.
“Sir,” cries Colonel Arnold, exploding into a sudden blaze of wrath, “I
was told in Cambridge, what my officers have often told me since, that
you are a bumptious young fool! Many times have I been told it, sir;
and, until now, I did you the honor to disbelieve it.” Young Aaron is
cold and sneering. “Sir,” he retorts, “see how much more credulous I
am than are you. I was told but once that you are a bragging, empty
vulgarian, and I instantly believed it.”
The pair stand opposite one another, glances crossing like sword blades,
the insulted letter on the floor between. It is Colonel Arnold who again
gives ground. Snapping his fingers, as though breaking off an incident
beneath his exalted notice, he goes about on his heel.
“Ah!” says young Aaron; “now that I see your back, sir, I shall take my
leave.”
The winter days, heavy and leaden and chill, go by. Colonel Arnold
continues those maneuverings and challengings, those struttings and
vaporings. At last even his coxcomb vanity grows weary, and he thinks
on Montreal. One morning, with all his followers, he marches off to
that city, still held by the garrison that Montgomery left behind.
Established in Montreal he comports himself as becomes a conqueror,
expanding into pomp and license, living on the fat, drinking of the
strong. And day by day Burgoyne is drawing nearer.
Broad spring descends; a green mist is visible in the winter-stripped
trees. The rumors of Burgoyne’s approach increase and prove disquieting.
Colonel Arnold leads his people out of Montreal, and plunges southward
into the wilderness. He pitches camp on the river Sorel.
Since the incident of the letter, young Aaron has held no traffic,
polite or otherwise, with Colonel Arnold. The “gentleman volunteer” sees
lonesome days; for he has made no friends about the camp. The men admire
him, but offer him no place in their hearts. A boy in years, with a
beardless girl’s face, he gives himself the airs of gravest manhood. His
atmosphere, while it does not repel, is not inviting. Men hold aloof,
as though separated from him by a gulf. He tells no stories, cracks no
jests. His manner is one of careless nonchalance. In truth, he is so
much engaged in upholding his young dignity as to leave him no time
to be popular. His bringing off the dead Montgomery, under fire of the
English, has been told and retold in every corner of the camp. This
gains him credit for a heart of fire, and a fortitude without a flaw. On
the march, too, he faces every hardship, shirks no work, but meets and
does his duty equal with the best. And yet there is that cool reserve,
which denies the thought of comradeship and holds friendly folk at bay.
With them, yet not of them, the men about him cannot solve the conundrum
of his nature; and so they leave him to himself. They value him, they
respect him, they hold his courage above proof; there it ends.
Young Aaron, aware of his lonely position, does nothing to change it.
He is conceitedly pleased with things as they are. It is the old head on
the young shoulders that thus gets in his way; Washington was right in
his philosophy. Young Aaron, however, is as content with that head,
as in those old Bethlehem days, when he patronized Dr. Bellamy, and
declared for the gospel according to Lord Chesterfield.
None the less young Aaron is not wholly satisfied. As he idles about the
camp by the Sorel, he feels that any present chance of conquering the
fame and power he came seeking in this war is closed against him.
“Plainly,” counsels the old head on the young shoulders, “it is time to
bring about a change.”
Colonel Arnold is smitten of surprise one afternoon, when young Aaron
walks into his tent. He does his best to hide that surprise, as an
emotion at war with his high military station. Young Aaron, ever equal
to a rigid etiquette, salutes profoundly.
“Colonel Arnold,” says he, “I am here to return into your hands that
rank of captain, which I hold only by courtesy. Also, I desire to tell
you that I leave for Albany at once.”
“Albany!”
“My canoe is waiting, sir. I start immediately.”
“I forbid your going, sir!”
Colonel Arnold has recovered his breath, and makes this proclamation
grandly. Privately, he is a-quake; for he does not know what stories
young Aaron might tell in the south.
“Sir,” he repeats, “I forbid your departure! You must not go!”
“Must not?”
As though answering his own query, young Aaron leaves Colonel Arnold
without further remark, and walks down to the river, where a canoe
is waiting. The latter cranky contrivance is manned by a quartette of
Canadians, who sit, paddle in fist, ready for the word to start.
[Illustration: 0081]
At this decisive action, Colonel Arnold is roused. He springs to his
feet and follows to the waiting canoe. Young Aaron has just taken his
place.
“Captain Burr,” cries Colonel Arnold, “what does this mean? You heard my
orders, sir! You must not go!”
Young Aaron is ashore like a flash. “Colonel Arnold,” says he, “it
is quite possible that you have force enough at hand to detain me. Be
warned, however, that the exercise of such force will have a sequel
serious to yourself.”
“Oh, as to that,” responds Colonel Arnold sullenly, “I shall not attempt
to detain you. I simply leave you to the responsibility of departing in
the teeth of my orders, sir.”
In a moment young Aaron is back in the canoe; the four paddles churn
the water into baby whirlpools, and the slight craft glides out upon the
bosom of the Sorel.
Young Aaron encounters a party of Indians, and conquers their friendship
with diplomatic rum. He reaches Albany, and tastes the delights of fame;
for the story of Quebec has preceded him, and he finds himself a hero.
Thereupon, while outwardly unmoved, he swells in the proud but secret
recesses of his heart.
In New York he meets his college friend Ogden, who tells him that he has
sold Warlock and spent the proceeds. Likewise, Colonel Troup explains
how he received a thousand pounds for him from his estate, but was moved
to borrow the half of it, having a call for such sum. Colonel Troup
gives five hundred pounds to young Aaron, who receives it carelessly,
the while assuring his debtor, as well as young Ogden, who spent the
price of Warlock, that they are cheerfully welcome to his gold. At
that, both young Ogden and Colonel Troup pluck up a generous spirit, and
borrow each another fifty pounds; which sums our “gentleman volunteer”
puts into their impoverished fingers, as readily as though pounds
mean groats and farthings. For he holds that to be niggard of money is
impossible to a soldier and a gentleman. Did not the knight-errant of
old romaunts go chucking gold-lined purses right and left, into every
empty outstretched hand? And shall not young Aaron be the modern
knight-errant if he chooses? These are the questions which he puts to
himself, as he ministers to the famished finances of his friends.
General Washington learns of the incident of the dead Montgomery. Having
a conscience, he is distressed by the thought that he may have been
harshly unjust, one Cambridge day, to our “gentleman volunteer.” The
conscience-smitten general has headquarters in New York, and now, when
young Aaron arrives, strives to make amends. He invites that youthful
campaigner to a place upon his personal staff, with the rank of major.
Young Aaron accepts, and becomes part of Washington’s military family.
The general is living at Richmond Hill, a mansion which in after years
young Aaron will buy and make his residence.
For six weeks young Aaron is with Washington. Sometimes he rides out
with him; sometimes he writes reports and orders at his dictation;
always he dislikes him. He finds nothing in the Virginian to invoke his
confidence or compel his esteem. In the finale he detests him.
This latter mind condition is vastly built up by the lack of notice
he receives from the ever-taciturn, often-abstracted, overworried
Washington. The big general will sit for hours, with brows of thought
and pondering eye, as heedless of young Aaron--albeit in the same room
with him--as though our sucking Marlborough owns no existence. This
irritates the latter’s pride; for he has military views which he longs
to unfold, but cannot because of the grim wordlessness of his chief. He
resolves to break the ice.
Washington is sitting lost in thought. “Sir,” exclaims young Aaron,
boldly rushing in upon the general’s meditations, “the English grow
stronger. Every day their fleet is augmented by new ships, bringing
fresh troops. Eventually they will land and drive us from the city. When
that time comes, it will be my advice to burn New York to the ground,
and leave them naught save the charred ruins.”
Washington pays no attention; it is as though a starling spoke.
Presently he mounts his horse, and soberly rides off to an inspection of
troops. Young Aaron is mightily mortified, and, by way of reestablishing
his dignity on the pedestal from which it has been thrust, neglects a
line of clerical work that should claim his attention. Washington upon
his return discovers this, and having a temper like gunpowder flashes
into a rage.
“What does this mean, sir?” he demands, angry to the eyes.
“Why, sir,” responds young Aaron coolly, “I should think it might mean
that I brought a sword not a pen to this war.”
“You are insolent, sir!”
“As you please, sir. But since you say it, I must ask to be relieved
from further duty on your staff.”
The big general stalks from the room. The next day he transfers young
Aaron to the staff of Putnam.
“I’m sorry he offended you, general,” says the old wolf killer. “For
myself, I’m bound to say that I think well of the boy.”
“There is a word,” returns Washington, “as to the meaning of which,
until I met him, I was ignorant; that is the word ‘prig.’ It is strange,
too; for he is as brave as Cæsar. I have it on the words of twenty. Yes,
general, your ‘gentleman-volunteer’ is altogether a strangeling; for he
is one of those anomalies, a courageous prig.”