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PHILIP WINWOOD
"The bravest are the tenderest."
BAYARD TAYLOR.
* * * * *
Works of ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS
An Enemy to the King
(Twenty-sixth Thousand)
The Continental Dragoon
(Seventeenth Thousand)
The Road to Paris
(Sixteenth Thousand)
A Gentleman Player
(Thirty-fifth Thousand)
Philip Winwood
(Fiftieth Thousand)
L.C. Page and Company, Publishers (Incorporated)
212 Summer St., Boston, Mass.
* * * * *
PHILIP WINWOOD
A Sketch of the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of
Independence; Embracing Events that Occurred between and during the
Years 1763 and 1786, in New York and London: written by His Enemy in
War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant in the Loyalist Forces.
Presented Anew by
Robert Neilson Stephens
Author of _A Gentleman Player_, _An Enemy to the King_, _The
Continental Dragoon_, _The Road to Paris_, etc.
Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton
Boston: L.C. Page & Company (Incorporated)
1900
[Illustration: CAPTAIN PHILIP WINWOOD.]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. PHILIP'S ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK
II. THE FARINGFIELDS
III. WHEREIN 'TIS SHOWN THAT BOYS ARE BUT BOYS
IV. HOW PHILIP AND I BEHAVED AS RIVALS IN LOVE
V. WE HEAR STARTLING NEWS, WHICH BRINGS ABOUT A
FAMILY "SCENE"
VI. NED COMES BACK, WITH AN INTERESTING TALE OF A
FORTUNATE IRISHMAN
VII. ENEMIES IN WAR
VIII. I MEET AN OLD FRIEND IN THE DARK
IX. PHILIP'S ADVENTURES--CAPTAIN FALCONER COMES
TO TOWN
X. A FINE PROJECT
XI. WINWOOD COMES TO SEE HIS WIFE
XII. THEIR INTERVIEW
XIII. WHEREIN CAPTAIN WINWOOD DECLINES A PROMOTION
XIV. THE BAD SHILLING TURNS UP ONCE MORE IN
QUEEN STREET
XV. IN WHICH THERE IS A FLIGHT BY SEA, AND A DUEL
BY MOONLIGHT
XVI. FOLLOWS THE FORTUNES OF MADGE AND NED
XVII. I HEAR AGAIN FROM WINWOOD
XVIII. PHILIP COMES AT LAST TO LONDON
XIX. WE MEET A PLAY-ACTRESS THERE
XX. WE INTRUDE UPON A GENTLEMAN AT A COFFEE-HOUSE
XXI. THE LAST, AND MOST EVENTFUL, OF THE HISTORY
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
CAPTAIN PHILIP WINWOOD Frontispiece
"OUR MOTIONS, AS WE TOUCHED OUR LIPS WITH THEM, WERE
SO IN UNISON THAT MARGARET LAUGHED"
"SHE WAS INDEED THE TOAST OF THE ARMY"
"'HE IS A--AN ACQUAINTANCE'"
"HE FINALLY DREW BACK TO GIVE HER A MORE EFFECTUAL BLOW"
"IT WAS PHILIP'S CUSTOM, AT THIS TIME, TO ATTEND FIRST
NIGHTS AT THE PLAYHOUSES"
CHAPTER I.
_Philip's Arrival in New York._
'Tis not the practice of writers to choose for biography men who have
made no more noise in the world than Captain Winwood has; nor the act
of gentlemen, in ordinary cases, to publish such private matters as
this recital will present. But I consider, on the one hand, that
Winwood's history contains as much of interest, and as good an example
of manly virtues, as will be found in the life of many a hero more
renowned; and, on the other, that his story has been so partially
known, and so distorted, it becomes indeed the duty of a gentleman,
when that gentleman was his nearest friend, to put forth that story
truly, and so give the lie for ever to the detractors of a brave and
kindly man.
There was a saying in the American army, proceeding first from Major
Harry Lee, of their famous Light Horse, that Captain Winwood was in
America, in the smaller way his modesty permitted, what the Chevalier
Bayard was in France, and Sir Philip Sidney in England. This has been
received more than once (such is the malice of conscious inferiority)
with derisive smiles or supercilious sneers; and not only by certain
of his own countrymen, but even in my presence, when my friendship for
Winwood, though I had been his rival in love and his enemy in war, was
not less known than was my quickness to take offence and avenge it. I
dealt with one such case, at the hour of dawn, in a glade near the
Bowery lane, a little way out of New York. And I might have continued
to vindicate my friend's character so: either with pistols, as at
Weehawken across the Hudson, soon after the war, I vindicated the
motives of us Englishmen of American birth who stood for the king in
the war of Independence; or with rapiers, as I defended the name of
our admired enemy, Washington, against a certain defamer, one morning
in Hyde Park, after I had come to London. But it has occurred to me
that I can better serve Winwood's reputation by the spilling of ink
with a quill than of blood with a sword or pistol. This consideration,
which is far from a desire to compete with the young gentlemen who
strive for farthings and fame, in Grub Street, is my apology for
profaning with my unskilled hand the implement ennobled by the use of
a Johnson and a Goldsmith, a Fielding and an Addison.
My acquaintance with the Captain's life, from the vantage of an
eye-witness and comrade, goes back to the time when all of us
concerned were children; to the very day, in truth, when Philip, a
pale and slender lad of eleven years, first set foot in New York, and
first set eye on Margaret Faringfield.
As I think of it, it seems but yesterday, and myself a boy again: but
it was, in fact, in the year 1763; and late in the afternoon of a
sunny Summer day. I remember well how thick and heavy the green leaves
hung upon the trees that thrust their branches out over the garden
walls and fences of our quiet street.
Tired from a day's play, or perchance lazy from the heat, I sprawled
upon the front step of our house, which was next the residence of the
Faringfields, in what was then called Queen Street. I believe the name
of that, as of many another in New York, has been changed since the
war, having savoured too much of royalty for republican taste.[1] The
Faringfield house, like the family, was one of the finest in New York;
and there were in that young city greater mansions than one would have
thought to find in a little colonial seaport--a rural-looking
provincial place, truly, which has been likened to a Dutch town almost
wholly transformed into the semblance of some secondary English town,
or into a tiny, far-off imitation of London. It lacked, of course, the
grand, gray churches, the palaces and historic places, that tell of
what a past has been London's; but it lacked, too, the begriming smoke
and fog that are too much of London's present. Indeed, never had any
town a clearer sky, or brighter sunshine, than are New York's.
From the Summer power of this sunshine, our part of Queen Street was
sheltered by the trees of gardens and open spaces; maple, oak,
chestnut, linden, locust, willow, what not? There was a garden,
wherein the breeze sighed all day, between our house and the
Faringfield mansion, to which it pertained. That vast house, of red
and yellow brick, was two stories and a garret high, and had a
doubly-sloping roof pierced with dormer windows. The mansion's lower
windows and wide front door were framed with carved wood-work, painted
white. Its garden gate, like its front door, opened directly to the
street; and in the garden gateway, as I lounged on our front step that
Summer evening, Madge Faringfield stood, running her fingers through
the thick white and brown hair of her huge dog at her side.
The dog's head was almost on a level with hers, for she was then but
eight years old, a very bright and pretty child. She turned her quick
glance down the street as she stood; and saw me lying so lazy; and at
once her gray eyes took on a teasing and deriding light, and I felt I
was in for some ironical, quizzing speech or other. But just then her
look fell upon something farther down the way, toward Hanover Square,
and lingered in a half-amused kind of curiosity. I directed my own
gaze to see what possessed hers, and this is what we both beheld
together, little guessing what the years to come should bring to make
that moment memorable in our minds.
A thin but well-formed boy of eleven; with a pleasant, kindly face,
somewhat too white, in which there was a look--as there was evidence
in his walk also--of his being tired from prolonged exertion or
endurance. He was decently, though not expensively, clad in black
cloth, his three-cornered felt hat, wide-skirted coat, and ill-fitting
knee-breeches, being all of the same solemn hue. I was to perceive
later that his clothes were old and carefully mended. His gray silk
stockings ill accorded with his poor shoes, of which the buckles were
of steel. He carried in one hand a large, ancient travelling-bag, so
heavy that it strained his muscles and dragged him down, thus partly
explaining the fatigued look in his face; and in his other hand a
basket, from the open top of which there appeared, thrust out, the
head of a live gray kitten.
This pretty animal's look of strangeness to its surroundings, as it
gazed about with curiosity, would alone have proclaimed that it was
arrived from travel; had not the baggage and appearance of its bearer
told the same story. The boy, also, kept an alert eye forward as he
advanced up the street, but it was soon evident that he gazed in
search of some particular object. This object, as the lad finally
satisfied himself by scanning it and its neighbours twice over, proved
to be the house immediately opposite ours. It was one of a row of
small, old brick residences, with Dutch gable ends toward the street.
Having made sure of its identity, and having reddened a little at the
gaze of Madge and me, the young stranger set down his bag with
perceptible signs of physical relief, and, keeping in his grasp the
basket with the cat, knocked with a seemingly forced boldness--as if
he were conscious of timidity to be overcome--upon the door.
At that, Madge Faringfield could not help laughing aloud.
It was a light, rippling, little laugh, entirely good-natured, lasting
but a moment. But it sufficed to make the boy turn and look at her and
blush again, as if he were hurt but bore no resentment.
Then I, who knew what it was to be wounded by a girl's laugh,
especially Madge's, thought it time to explain, and called out to the
lad:
"There's nobody at home there."
The boy gazed at me at a loss; then, plainly reluctant to believe me,
he once more inspected the blank, closed front of the house, for
denial or confirmation of my word. When he next looked back at me, the
expression of inquiring helplessness and vague alarm on his face, as
if the earth were giving way beneath his feet, was half comical, half
pitiful to see.
"It is Mr. Aitken's house, is it not?" he asked, in a tone low and
civil, though it seemed to betray a rapid beating of the heart after a
sudden sinking thereof.
"It was," I replied, "but he has gone back to England, and that house
is empty."
The lad's dismay now became complete, yet it appeared in no other way
than in the forlorn expression of his sharp, pale countenance, and in
the unconscious appeal with which his blue eyes surveyed Madge and me
in turn. But in a few moments he collected himself, as if for the
necessary dealing with some unexpected castastrophe, and asked me, a
little huskily still:
"When will he come home?"
"Never, to this house, I think. Another customs officer has come over
in his place, but this one lodges at the King's Arms, because he's a
bachelor."
The lad cast a final hopeless glance at the house, and then
mechanically took a folded letter from an inner pocket, and dismally
regarded the name on the back.
"I had a letter for him," he said, presently, looking again across the
street at me and Madge, for the curious Miss Faringfield had walked
down from her gateway to my side, that she might view the stranger
better. And now she spoke, in her fearless, good-humoured, somewhat
forward way:
"If you will give the letter to me, my father will send it to Mr.
Aitken in London."
"Thank you, but that would be of no use," said the lad, with a
disconsolate smile.
"Why not?" cried Madge promptly, and started forthwith skipping across
the dusty street. I followed, and in a moment we two were quite close
to the newcomer.
"You're tired," said Madge, not waiting for his answer. "Why don't you
sit down?" And she pointed to the steps of the vacant house.
"Thank you," said the lad, but with a bow, and a gesture that meant he
would not sit while a lady stood, albeit the lady's age was but eight
years.
Madge, pleased at this, smiled, and perched herself on the upper step.
Waiting to be assured that I preferred standing, the newcomer then
seated himself on his own travelling-bag, an involuntary sigh of
comfort showing how welcome was this rest.
"Did you come to visit in New York?" at once began the inquisitive
Madge.
"Yes, I--I came to see Mr. Aitken," was the hesitating and dubious
answer.
"And so you'll have to go back home without seeing him?"
"I don't very well see how I can go back," said the boy slowly.
"Oh, then you will visit some one else, or stay at the tavern?" Madge
went on.
"I don't know any one else here," was the reply, "and I can't stay at
the tavern."
"Why, then, what will you do?"
"I don't know--yet," the lad answered, looking the picture of
loneliness.
"Where do you live?" I put in.
"I did live in Philadelphia, but I left there the other day by the
stage-coach, and arrived just now in New York by the boat."
"And why can't you go back there?" I continued.
"Why, because,--I had just money enough left to pay my way to New
York; and even if I should walk back, I've no place there to go back
to, and no one at all--now--" He broke off here, his voice faltering;
and his blue eyes filled with moisture. But he made a swallow, and
checked the tears, and sat gently stroking the head of his kitten.
For a little time none of us spoke, while I stood staring somewhat
abashed at the lad's evident emotion. Madge studied his countenance
intently, and doubtless used her imagination to suppose little
Tom--her younger and favourite brother--in this stranger's place.
Whatever it was that impelled her, she suddenly said to him, "Wait
here," and turning, ran back across the street, and disappeared
through the garden gate.
Instead of following her, the dog went up to the new boy's cat and
sniffed at its nose, causing it to whisk back its head and gaze
spellbound. To show his peaceful mind, the dog wagged his tail, and by
degrees so won the kitten's confidence that it presently put forth its
face again and exchanged sniffs.
"I should think you'd have a dog, instead of a cat," said I,
considering the stranger's sex.
He answered nothing to this, but looked quite affectionately at his
pet. I set it down as odd that so manly a lad should so openly show
liking for a cat. The conduct of the animal in its making acquaintance
with the dog; the good-humoured assurance of the one, and the cautious
coyness of the other; amused us till presently Madge's voice was
heard; and then we saw her coming from the garden, speaking to her
father, who walked bareheaded beside her. Behind, at a little
distance, came Madge's mother and little Tom. All four stopped at the
gateway, and looked curiously toward us.
"Come over here, boy," called Madge, and heeded not the reproof her
mother instantly gave her in an undertone for her forwardness. For any
one of his children but Madge, reproof would have come from her father
also; in all save where she was concerned, he was a singularly correct
and dignified man, to the point of stiffness and austerity. His wife,
a pretty, vain, inoffensive woman, was always chiding her children for
their smaller faults, and never seeing the traits that might lead to
graver ones.
Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield awaited the effect of Madge's invitation, or
rather command, adding nothing to it. The boy's colour showed his
diffidence, under the scrutiny of so many coldly inquiring eyes; but
after a moment he rose, and I, with greater quickness, seized his bag
by the handle and started across the street with it. He called out a
surprised and grateful "Thank you," and followed me. I was speedily
glad I had not undertaken to carry the bag as far as he had done;
'twas all I could do to bear it.
"How is this, lad?" said Mr. Faringfield, when the boy, with hat off,
stood before him. The tone was stern enough, a stranger would have
thought, though it was indeed a kindly one for Madge's father. "You
have come from Philadelphia to visit Mr. Aitken? Is he your relation?"
"No, sir; he was a friend of my father's before my father came to
America," replied the lad, in a low, respectful voice.
"Yet your father did not know he was gone back to England? How is
that?"
"My father is dead, sir; he died six years ago."
"Oh, I see," replied Mr. Faringfield, a little taken down from his
severity. "And the letter my little girl tells me of?"
"If you please, my mother wrote it, sir," said the boy, looking at the
letter in his hand, his voice trembling a little. He seemed to think,
from the manner of the Faringfields, that he was obliged to give a
full account of himself, and so went on. "She didn't know what else to
do about me, sir, as there was no one in Philadelphia--that is, I
mean, she remembered what a friend Mr. Aitken was to my father--they
were both of Oxford, sir; Magdalen college. And so at last she thought
of sending me to him, that he might get me a place or something; and
she wrote the letter to tell him who I was; and she saw to it that I
should have money enough to come to New York,--"
"But I don't understand," interrupted Mr. Faringfield, frowning his
disapproval of something. "What made it necessary for her to dispose
of you? Was she going to marry again?"
"She was going to die, sir," replied the boy, in a reserved tone
which, despite his bashfulness, both showed his own hurt, and rebuked
his elder's thoughtless question.
"Poor boy!" whispered Mrs. Faringfield, grasping her little Tom's
hand.
"Oh," said her husband, slowly, slightly awed from his sternness. "I
beg your pardon, my lad. I am very sorry, indeed. Your being here,
then, means that you are now an orphan?"
"Yes, sir," was the boy's only answer, and he lowered his eyes toward
his kitten, and so sad and lonely an expression came into his face
that no wonder Mrs. Faringfield whispered again, "Poor lad," and even
Madge and little Tom looked solemn.
"Well, boy, something must be done about you, that's certain," said
Mr. Faringfield. "You have no money, my daughter says. Spent all you
had for cakes and kickshaws in the towns where the stage-coach
stopped, I'll warrant."
The boy smiled. "The riding made me hungry sir," said he. "I'd have
saved my extra shilling if I'd known how it was going to be."
"But is there nothing coming to you in Philadelphia? Did your mother
leave nothing?"
"Everything was sold at auction to pay our debts--it took the books
and our furniture and all, to do that."
"The books?"
"We kept a book-shop, sir. My father left it to us. He was a
bookseller, but he was a gentleman and an Oxford man."
"And he didn't make a fortune at the book trade, eh?"
"No, sir. I've heard people say he would rather read his books than
sell them."
"From your studious look I should say you took after him."
"I do like to read, sir," the lad admitted quietly, smiling again.
Here Madge put in, with the very belated query:
"What's your name?"
"Philip Winwood," the boy answered, looking at her pleasantly.
"Well, Master Winwood," said Madge's father, "we shall have to take
you in overnight, at least, and then see what's to be done."
At this Mrs. Faringfield said hastily, with a touch of alarm:
"But, my dear, is it quite safe? The child might--might have the
measles or something, you know."
Madge tittered openly, and Philip Winwood looked puzzled. Mr.
Faringfield answered:
"One can see he is a healthy lad, and cleanly, though he is tired and
dusty from his journey. He may occupy the end garret room. 'Tis an odd
travelling companion you carry, my boy. Did you bring the cat from
Philadelphia?"
"Yes, sir; my mother was fond of it, and I didn't like to leave it
behind."
The kitten drew back from the stately gentleman's attempt to tap its
nose with his finger, and evinced a desire to make the acquaintance of
his wife, toward whom it put forth its head as far as possible out of
its basket, beginning the while to purr.
"Look, mamma, it wants to come to you," cried little Tom, delighted.
"Cats and dogs always make friends quicker with handsome people," said
Philip Winwood, with no other intent than merely to utter a fact, of
which those who observe the lower animals are well aware.
"There, my dear," said Mr. Faringfield, "there's a compliment for you
at my expense."
The lady, who had laughed to conceal her pleasure at so innocent a
tribute, now freely caressed the kitten; of which she had been shy
before, as if it also might have the measles.
"Well, Philip," she said, a moment later, "come in, and feel that you
are at home. You'll have just time to wash, and brush the dust off,
before supper. He shall occupy the second spare chamber, William," she
added, turning to her husband. "How could you think of sending so nice
and good-looking a lad to the garret? Leave your travelling-bag here,
child; the servants shall carry it in for you."
"This is so kind of you, ma'am, and sir," said Philip, with a lump in
his throat; and able to speak his gratitude the less, because he felt
it the more.
"I am the one you ought to thank," said Madge archly, thus calling
forth a reproving "Margaret!" from her mother, and an embarrassed
smile--part amusement, part thanks, part admiration--from Philip. The
smile so pleased Madge, that she gave one in return and then actually
dropped her eyes.
I saw with a pang that the newcomer was already in love with her, and
I knew that the novelty of his adoration would make her oblivious of
my existence for at least a week to come. But I bore him no malice,
and as the Faringfields turned toward the rear veranda of the house, I
said:
"Come and play with me whenever you like. That's where I live, next
door. My name is Herbert Russell, but they call me Bert, for short."
"Thank you," said Winwood, and was just about to go down the garden
walk between Madge and little Tom, when the whole party was stopped by
a faint boo-hooing, in a soft and timid voice, a short distance up the
street.
"'Tis Fanny," cried Mrs. Faringfield, affrightedly, and ran out from
the garden to the street.
"Ned has been bullying her," said Madge, anger suddenly firing her
pretty face. And she, too, was in the street in a moment, followed by
all of us, Philip Winwood joining with a ready boyish curiosity and
interest in what concerned his new acquaintances.
Sure enough, it was Fanny Faringfield, Madge's younger sister, coming
along the street, her knuckles in her eyes, the tears streaming down
her face; and behind her, with his fists in his coat pockets, and his
cruel, sneering laugh on his bold, handsome face, came Ned, the eldest
of the four Faringfield young ones. He and Fanny were returning from a
children's afternoon tea-party at the Wilmots' house in William
Street, from which entertainment Madge had stayed away because she had
had another quarrel with Ned, whom she, with her self-love and high
spirit, had early learned to hate for his hectoring and domineering
nature. I shared Madge's feeling there, and was usually at daggers
drawn with Ned Faringfield; for I never would take any man's
browbeating. Doubtless my own quickness of temper was somewhat to
blame. I know that it got me into many fights, and had, in fact, kept
me too from that afternoon's tea, I being then not on speaking terms
with one of the Wilmot boys. As for Madge's detestation of Ned, she
made up for it by her love of little Tom, who then and always deserved
it. Tom was a true, kind, honest, manly fellow, from his cradle to
that sad night outside the Kingsbridge tavern. Madge loved Fanny too,
but less wholly. As for Fanny, dear girl, she loved them all, even
Ned, to whom she rendered homage and obedience; and to save whom from
their father's hard wrath, she now, at sight of us all issuing from
the gateway, suddenly stopped crying and tried to look as if nothing
were the matter.
Ned, seeing his father, paled and hesitated; but the next moment came
swaggering on, his face showing a curious succession of fear,
defiance, cringing, and a crafty hope of lying out of his offence.
It was, of course, the very thing Fanny did to shield him, that
certainly betrayed him; and when I knew from her sudden change of
conduct that he was indeed to blame, I would gladly have attacked him,
despite that he was twelve years old and I but ten. But I dared not
move in the presence of our elders, and moreover I saw at once Ned's
father would deal with him to our complete satisfaction.
"Go to your room, sir," said Mr. Faringfield, in his sternest tone,
looking his anger out of eyes as hard as steel. This meant for Master
Ned no supper, and probably much worse.
"Please, sir, I didn't do anything," answered Ned, with ill-feigned
surprise. "She fell and hurt her arm."
Fanny did not deny this, but she was no liar, and could not confirm
it. So she looked to the ground, and clasped her left wrist with her
right hand. But in this latter movement she again exposed her brother
by the very means she took to protect him; for quick-seeing Madge,
observing the action, gently but firmly unclasped the younger sister's
hand, and so disclosed the telltale marks of Ned's fingers upon the
delicate wrist, by squeezing or wrenching which that tyrant had
evinced his brotherly superiority.
At sight of this, Mrs. Faringfield gave a low cry of horror and
maternal pity, and fell to caressing the bruised wrist; and Madge,
raising her arm girl-wise, began to rain blows on her brother, which
fell wherever they might, but where none of them could hurt. Her
father, without reproving her, drew her quietly back, and with a
countenance a shade darker than before, pointed out the way for Ned
toward the veranda leading to the rear hall-door.
With a vindictive look, and pouting lips, Ned turned his steps down
the walk. Just then he noticed Philip Winwood, who had viewed every
detail of the scene with wonder, and who now regarded Ned with a kind
of vaguely disliking curiosity, such as one bestows on some
sinister-looking strange animal. Philip's look was, of course,
unconscious, but none the less clearly to be read for that. Ned
Faringfield, pausing on his way, stared at the unknown lad, with an
expression of insolent inquiry. Not daring to stay for questions, but
observing the valise, he seemed to become aware that the newcomer was
an already accepted guest of the house; and he thereupon surveyed
Philip a moment, inwardly measuring him as a possible comrade or
antagonist, but affecting a kind of disdain. A look from his father
ended Ned's inspection, and sent him hastily toward his imprisonment,
whither he went with no one's pity but Fanny's--for his mother had
become afraid of him, and little Tom took his likes and dislikes from
his sister Madge.
And so they went in to supper, disappearing from my sight behind the
corner of the parlour wing as they mounted the rear veranda: Mr. and
Mrs. Faringfield first, the mother leading Fanny by the wounded wrist;
the big dog next, wagging his tail for no particular reason; and then
Philip Winwood, with his cat in his basket, Madge at one side of him
and pretending an interest in the kitten while from beneath her lashes
she alertly watched the boy himself, little Tom on the other side
holding Philip's hand. I stood at the gateway, looking after; and with
all my young infatuation for Madge, I had no feeling but one of
liking, for this quiet, strange lad, with the pale, kind face. And I
would to God I might see those three still walking together, as when
children, through this life that has dealt so strangely with them all
since that Summer evening.