_Enemies in War._
As this is not a history of the wars I shall not dwell upon the talk
and preparations that went on during the weeks ensuing upon our
eventful Sunday: which talk was common to both parties, but which
preparations were mainly on the part of the rebels, we loyalists
awaiting events and biding the return from England of Governor Tryon.
There were looks of suspicion exchanged, and among the more violent
and uncouth there were open boasts bandied, open taunts reciprocated,
and open threats hurled back and forth. Most of the quality of the
town were on the loyal side; but yet there were some excellent
families--such as the Livingstones--who stood first and last among the
so-called Whigs. This was the case in great part of the country, the
wealth and culture, with distinguished exceptions, being for the king
and parliament; though, I must own, a great quantity of the brains
being on the other side: but in Virginia and her Southerly neighbours,
strange to say, the aristocracy largely, though not entirely, leaned
toward revolt; for what reason I never knew, unless it was that many
of them, descended from younger sons of good English stock who had
been exiled as black sheep or ne'er-do-wells, inherited feelings
similar to Mr. Faringfield's. Or perhaps 'twas indeed a pride, which
made them resentful of the superiority assumed by native Englishmen
over them as colonists. Or they may have felt that they should
actually become slaves in submitting to be taxed by a parliament in
which they were not represented. In any case, they (like Philip
Winwood and Mr. Faringfield, the Adamses of Boston, and thousands of
others) had motives that outweighed in them the sentiment of loyalty,
the passion of attachment to the land whence we had drawn our race and
still drew our culture and all our refinements and graces. This
sentiment, and this passion, made it impossible for Tom Faringfield
and me to see any other course for us than undeviating fidelity to the
king and the mother-country. There were of course some loyalists (or
Tories, if you prefer that name) who took higher views than arose from
their mere affections, and who saw harm for America in any revolt from
English government; and there were others, doubtless, whose motives
were entirely low and selfish, such as holders of office under the
crown, and men who had powers and privileges of which any change of
system, any disturbance of the royal authority, might deprive them. It
was Philip who called my attention to this last class, and to the
effect its existence must have on the common people in the crisis then
present.
"The colonists of America are not like any other people," said he.
"Their fathers came to this land when it was a savage wilderness,
tearing themselves from their homes, from civil surroundings; that
they might be far from tyranny, in small forms as well as great. Not
merely tyranny of king or church, but the shapes of it that Hamlet
speaks of--'the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the
insolence of office.' All for the sake of liberty, they battled with
savages and with nature, fought and toiled, bled and starved. And
Tyranny ignored them till they had transformed their land and
themselves into something worth its attention. And then, backed and
sustained by royal authority, those hated things stole in upon
them--'the insolence of office, the proud man's contumely, the
oppressor's wrong.' This, lookye, besides the particular matter of
taxation without representation; of being bid to obey laws they have
no hand in making; of having a set of masters, three thousand miles
away, and not one of their own land or their own choosing, order them
to do thus and so:--why, 'twere the very soul and essence of slavery
to submit! Man, how can you wonder I am of their side?"
"And with your taste for the things to be found only in the monarchies
of Europe; for the arts, and the monuments of past history, the places
hallowed by great events and great men!" said I, quoting remembered
expressions of his own.
"Why," says he, smiling a little regretfully, "we shall have our own
arts and hallowed places some day; meanwhile one's taste must defer to
one's heart and one's intelligence."
"Yes," said I, with malicious derision, "when 'tis so great a question
as a paltry tax upon tea."
"'Tis no such thing," says he, warming up; "'tis a question of being
taxed one iota, the thousandth part of a farthing, by a body of
strangers, a body in which we are not represented."
"Neither were we represented in it when it sent armies to protect us
from the French, and toward the cost of which 'tis right we should
pay."
"We paid, in men and money both. And the armies were sent less for our
protection than for the aggrandisement of England. She was fighting
the French the world over; in America, as elsewhere, the only
difference being that in America we helped her."
So 'twas disputed between many another pair of friends, between
brothers, between fathers and sons, husbands and wives. I do not know
of another civil war that made as many breaks in families. Meanwhile,
the local authorities--those of local election, not of royal
appointment--were yet outwardly noncommittal. When Colonel Washington,
the general-in-chief appointed by the congress of the colonies at
Philadelphia, was to pass through New York on his way to Cambridge,
where the New England rebels were surrounding the king's troops in
Boston, it was known that Governor Tryon would arrive from England
about the same time. Our authorities, rather than seem to favour one
side, sent a committee to New Jersey to meet the rebel commander and
escort him through the town, and immediately thereafter paid a similar
attention to the royal governor. One of those who had what they
considered the honour of riding behind Mr. Washington a part of his
way (he came accompanied by a troop of horse from Philadelphia, and
made a fine, commanding figure, I grant) was Philip Winwood. When he
returned from Kingsbridge, I, pretending I had not gone out of my way
to see the rebel generalissimo pass, met him with a smile, as if to
make a joke of all the rebel preparations:
"Well," says I, "what manner of hero is your illustrious chief? A very
Julius Cæsar, I make no doubt."
"A grave and modest gentleman," says Phil, "and worthy of all the
admiration you used to have for him when we would talk of the French
War. I remember you would say he was equal to all the regular English
officers together; and how you declared Governor Shirley was a fool
for not giving him a king's commission."
"Well," said I, "'tis a thousand to one, that if Colonel Washington
hadn't been disappointed of a king's commission, he wouldn't now be
leader of the king's enemies." I knew I had no warrant the slightest
for attributing Mr. Washington's patriotism to such a petty motive as
a long-cherished resentment of royal neglect; and years afterward, in
London, I was to chastise an equally reckless speaker for a similar
slander; but I was young and partisan, and being nettled by the
reminder of my inconsistency, spoke to irritate.
"That is a lie!" said Phil, quietly, looking me straight in the face.
Such a word from Philip made me stare in amazement; but it did not
improve my temper, or incline me to acknowledge the injustice I had
uttered. My face burned, my fingers clenched. But it was Philip that
had spoken; and a thing or two flashed into my mind in the pause; and,
controlling myself, I let out a long breath, opened my fists, and,
with the best intentions in the world, and with the quietest voice,
gave him a blow far more severe than a blow of the fist had been.
"I will take that from you, Phil," said I: "God knows, your stand in
this rebellion has caused you enough unhappiness."
He winced, and sent me a startled look, stung at my alluding to the
estrangement of his wife. I know not whether he took it as a taunt
from so dear a friend, or whether the mere mention of so delicate a
sorrow was too much for him; but his face twitched, and he gave a
swallow, and was hard put to it to hold back the tears.
"Forgive me," I said, stricken to the heart at sight of this. "I am
your friend always, Phil." I put a hand upon his shoulder, and his
face turned to a kindly expression of pardon, a little short of the
smile he dared not yet trust himself to attempt.
Margaret's demeanour to him, indeed, had not shown the smallest
softening. But to the rest of the world, after the immediate effects
of that Sunday scene had worn off, she seemed vastly more sparkling
and fascinating than ever before: whether she was really so, and of
intention, or whether the appearance was from contrast with her
treatment of Philip, I dare not say. But the impression was Philip's,
I think, as well as every one's else; and infinitely it multiplied the
sorrow of which he would not speak, but which his countenance could
not conceal. When the news of the affair at Bunker's Hill was
discussed at the supper-table one evening in June, I being present,
and Margaret heard how bravely the British charged the third and
successful time up to the rebel works, after being hurled back twice
by a very hell of musketry, she dropped her fork, and clapped her
hands, crying:
"Bravo, bravo! 'Tis such men that grow in England. I could love every
one of 'em!"
"Brave men, I allow," said Philip; "but as for their victory, 'twas
but a technical one, if accounts be true. Their loss was greater than
ours; and the fight proved that Americans can stand before British
regulars."
Margaret paid no more notice than if Philip had not spoken--'twas her
practice now to ignore his speeches not directed to herself alone--and
when he had done, she said, blithely, to one of the young De Lanceys,
who was a guest:
"And so they drove the Yankees out! And what then, cousin?"
"Why, that was all. But as for the men that grow in England, you'll
find some of us grown in America quite as ready to fight for the king,
if matters go on. Only wait till Governor Tryon sets about calling for
loyal regiments. We shall be falling over one another in the scramble
to volunteer. But I mean to be first."
"Good, cousin!" she cried. "You may kiss my hand for that--nay, my
cheek, if I could reach it to you."
"Faith," said De Lancey, after gallantly touching her fingers with his
lips, "if all the ladies in New York had such hands, and offered 'em
to be kissed by each recruit for the king, there'd be no man left to
fight on the rebel side."
"Why, his Majesty is welcome to my two hands for the purpose, and my
face, too," she rattled on. "But some of our New York rebels were
going to do great things: 'tis two months now, and yet we see nothing
of their doings."
"Have a little patience, madam," said Philip, very quietly. "We rebels
may be further advanced in our arrangements than is known in all
quarters."
The truth of this was soon evident. In the open spaces of the
town--the parade-ground (or Bowling Green) outside the fort; the
common at the head of the town; before the very barracks in Chambers
Street that had just been vacated by the last of the royal troops in
New York, they having sailed for Boston rather for their own safety
than to swell the army there--there was continual instructing and
drilling of awkward Whigs. Organisation had proceeded throughout the
province, whose entire rebel force was commanded by Mr. Philip
Schuyler, of Albany; subordinate to whom was Mr. Richard Montgomery,
an Irish gentleman who had first set foot in America at Louisbourg, as
a king's officer, and who now resided beyond Kingsbridge.
It was under Montgomery that Philip Winwood took service, enlisting as
a private soldier, but soon revealing such knowledge of military
matters that he was speedily, in the off-hand manner characteristic of
improvised armies, made a lieutenant. This was a little strange,
seeing that there was a mighty scramble for commissions, nine out of
every ten patriots, however raw, clamouring to be officers; and it
shows that sometimes (though 'tis not often) modest merit will win as
well as self-assertive incompetence. Philip had obtained his
acquaintance with military forms from books; he was, in his ability to
assimilate the matter of a book, an exception among men; and a still
greater exception in his ability to apply that matter practically.
Indeed, it sometimes seemed that he could get out of a book not only
all that was in it, but more than was in it. Many will not believe
what I have related of him, that he had actually learned the rudiments
of fencing, the soldier's manual of arms, the routine of camp and
march, and such things, from reading; but it is a fact: just as it is
true that Greene, the best general of the rebels after Washington,
learned military law, routine, tactics, and strategy, from books he
read at the fire of the forge where he worked as blacksmith; and that
the men whom he led to Cambridge, from Rhode Island, were the best
disciplined, equipped, uniformed, and maintained, of the whole Yankee
army at that time. As for Philip's gift of translating printed matter
into actuality, I remember how, when we afterward came to visit
strange cities together, he would find his way about without a
question, like an old resident, through having merely read
descriptions of the places.
But rank did not come unsought, or otherwise, to Philip's fellow
volunteer from the Faringfield house, Mr. Cornelius. The pedagogue,
with little to say on the subject, took the rebel side as a matter of
course, Presbyterians being, it seems, republican in their nature. He
went as a private in the same company with Philip.
It was planned that the rebel troops of New York province should
invade Canada by way of Lake George, while the army under Washington
continued the siege of Boston. Philip went through the form of
arranging that his wife should remain at her father's house--the only
suitable home for her, indeed--during his absence in the field; and
so, in the Summer of 1775, upon a day much like that in which he had
first come to us twelve years before, it was ours to wish him for a
time farewell.
Mr. Faringfield and his lady, with Fanny and Tom, stood in the hall,
and my mother and I had joined them there, when Philip came
down-stairs in his new blue regimentals. He wore his sword, but it was
not his wife that had buckled it on. There had been no change in her
manner toward him: he was still to her but as a strange guest in the
house, rather to be disdained than treated with the courtesy due even
to a strange guest. We all asked ourselves what her farewell would be,
but none mentioned the thought. As Phil came into view at the first
landing, he sent a quick glance among us to see if she was there. For
a moment his face was struck into a sadly forlorn expression; but, as
if by chance, she came out of the larger parlour at that moment, and
his countenance revived almost into hope. The rest of us had already
said our good-byes to Mr. Cornelius, who now stood waiting for Philip.
As the latter reached the foot of the stairs, Margaret suddenly turned
to the pedagogue, to add her civility to ours, for she had always
liked the bashful fellow, and _his_ joining the rebels was to her a
matter of indifference--it did not in any way affect her own pleasure.
This movement on her part made it natural that Philip's first
leave-taking should be of Mr. Faringfield, who, seeing Margaret
occupied, went forward and grasped Phil's hand.
"God bless thee, lad," said he, showing the depth of his feelings as
much by a tenderness very odd in so cold a man, as by reverting to the
old pronoun now becoming obsolete except with Quakers, "and bring thee
safe out of it all, and make thy cause victorious!"
"Good-bye, Philip," said Mrs. Faringfield, with some betrayal of
affection, "and heaven bring you back to us!"
Fanny's farewell, though spoken with a voice more tremulous and eyes
more humid, was in the same strain; and so was that of my mother,
though she could not refrain from adding, "Tis such a pity!" and
wishing that so handsome a soldier was on the right side.
"Good-bye and good luck, dear old Phil!" was all that Tom said.
"And so say I," I put in, taking his hand in my turn, and trying not
to show my discomposure, "meaning to yourself, but not to your cause.
Well--dear lad--heaven guard you, and give you a speedy return! For
your sake and ours, may the whole thing be over before your campaign
is begun. I should like to see a war, and be in one--but not a war
like this, that makes enemies of you and me. Good-bye, Phil--and come
back safe and sound."
'Twas Margaret's time now, for Ned was not present. There was a pause,
as Phil turned questioningly--nay wistfully--toward her. She met his
look calmly. Old Noah and some of the negroes, who had pressed forward
to see Phil's departure from the house, were waiting for her to speak,
that they might afterward call out their Godspeed.
"Good-bye!" she said, at last, holding out her hand indifferently.
He took the hand, bent over it, pressed it with his lips. Then he
looked at her again. I think she must have shown just the slightest
yielding, given just the least permission, in her eyes; for he went
nearer, and putting his arm around her, gently drew her close to him,
and looked down at her. Suddenly she turned her face up, and pursed
her lips. With a look of gladness, he passionately kissed her.
"God bless you, my dear wife," he whispered; and then, as if by
expecting more he might court a disappointment to mar the memory of
that leave-taking, he released her, and said to us all: "Take care of
her, I pray!" whereupon, abruptly turning, he hastened out of the open
door, waving back his hat in response to our chorus of good-byes, and
the loud "Go' bless you, Massa Philip!" of the negroes.
We followed quickly to the porch, to look after him. But he strode off
so fast that Cornelius had to run to keep up with him. He did not once
look back, even when he passed out of sight at the street corner. I
believe he divined that his wife would not be among those looking
after, and that he wished not to interpose any other last impression
of his dear home than that of her kiss.
When we came back into the hall, she had flown. Later, as my mother
and I went through the garden homeward, passing beneath Margaret's
open windows, we heard her weeping--not violently, but steadily,
monotonously, as if she had a long season of the past to regret, a
long portion of the future to sorrow for. And here let me say that I
think Margaret, from first to last, loved Philip with more tenderness
than she was capable of bestowing upon any one else; with an affection
so deep that sometimes it might be obscured by counter feelings
playing over the surface of her heart, so deep that often she might
not be conscious of its presence, but so deep that it might never be
uprooted:--and 'twas that which made things the more pitiful.
Tom and I went out, with a large number of the town's people, to watch
the rebel soldiers depart, and we saw Philip with his company, and
exchanged with him a smile and a wave of the hat. How little we
thought that one of us he was never to meet again, that the other he
was not to see in many years, and that four of those years were to
pass ere he should set foot again in Queen Street.
Many things, to be swiftly passed over in my history, occurred in
those four years. One of these, the most important to me, happened a
short time after Philip's departure for the North. It was a brief
conversation with Fanny, and it took place upon the wayside walk at
what they call the Battery, at the green Southern end of the town,
where it is brought to a rounded point by the North and East Rivers
approaching each other as they flow into the bay. To face the gentle
breeze, I stopped and turned so we might look Southward over the bay,
toward where, at the distant Narrows, Long Island and Staten Island
seem to meet and close it in.
"I don't like to look out yonder," said Fanny. "It makes me imagine
I'm away on the ocean, by myself. And it seems so lonely."
"Why, you poor child," replied I, "'tis a sin you should ever feel
lonely; you do so much to prevent others being so." I turned my back
upon the bay, and led her past the fort, toward the Broadway. "You
see," said I, abruptly, glancing at her brown eyes, which dropped in a
charming confusion, "how much you need a comrade." I remember I was
not entirely unconfused myself at that moment, for inspiration had
suddenly shown me my opportunity, and how to use it, and some inward
trepidation was inseparable from a plunge into the matter I was now
resolved upon going through.
"Why," says she, blushing, and seeming, as she walked, to take a great
interest in her pretty feet, "I have several comrades as it is."
"Yes. But I mean one that should devote himself to you alone. Philip
has Margaret; and besides, he is gone now, and so is Mr. Cornelius.
And Tom will be finding a wife some day, and your parents cannot live
for ever, and your friends will be married one after another."
"Poor me!" says she, with a sigh of comic wofulness. "How helpless and
alone you make me feel!"
"Not so entirely alone, neither! There's one I didn't mention."
"And that one, too, I suppose, will be running off some day."
"No. He, like Tom, will be seeking a wife some day; perhaps sooner
than Tom; perhaps very soon indeed; perhaps this very minute."
"Oh, Bert!--What nonsense! Don't look at me so, here in the
street--people will take notice."
"What do I care for people? Let the fellows all see, and envy me, if
you'll give me what I ask. What say you, dearest? Speak; tell me! Nay,
if you won't, I'll make you blush all the more--I love you, I love
you, I love you! Now will you speak?"
"Oh, Bert, dear, at least wait till we are home!"
"If you'll promise to say yes then."
"Very well--if 'twill please you."
"Nay, it must be to please yourself too. You do love me a little,
don't you?"
"Why, of course I do; and you must have known it all the time!"
But, alas, her father's "yes" was not so easily to be won. I broached
the matter to him that very evening (Fanny and I meanwhile having come
to a fuller understanding in the seclusion of the garden); but he
shook his head, and regarded me coldly.
"No, sir," said he. "For, however much you are to be esteemed as a
young gentleman of honour and candour and fine promise, 'tis for me to
consider you rather as an adherent of a government that has persecuted
my country, and now makes war upon it. The day may come when you will
find a more congenial home nearer the crown you have already expressed
your desire to fight for. And then, if Fanny were your wife, you would
carry her off to make an Englishwoman of her, as my first daughter
would have been carried by her husband, upon different motives, but
for this war. Perhaps 'twere better she could have gone," he added,
with a sigh, for Margaret had been his favourite child; "my loss of
her could scarce have been more complete than it is. But 'tis not so
with Fanny."
"But, sir, I am not to take it that you refuse me, definitely,
finally?--I beg--"
"Nay, sir, I only say that we must wait. Let us see what time shall
bring to pass. I believe that you will not--and I am sure that Fanny
will not--endeavour any act without my consent, or against my wish.
Nay, I don't bid you despair, neither. Time shall determine."
I was not so confident that I would not endeavour any act without his
consent; but I shared his certainty that Fanny would not. And so, in
despondency, I took the news to her.
"Well," says she, with a sigh. "We must wait, that's all."
While we were waiting, and during the Fall and Winter, we heard now
and then from Philip, for communication was still possible between New
York and the rebel army proceeding toward Canada. He wrote Margaret
letters of which the rest of us never saw the contents; but he wrote
to Mr. Faringfield and me also. His history during this time was that
of his army, of which we got occasional news from other sources.
During part of September and all of October it was besieging St.
John's, which capitulated early in November. Schuyler's ill-health had
left the supreme active command to Montgomery. The army pushed on, and
occupied Montreal, though it failed to capture Governor Carleton; who
escaped to Quebec in a boat, by ingeniously disguising himself as a
countryman. At Montreal the jealousies and quarrels of officers, so
summarily created such, gave Montgomery much trouble, and when he set
forward for Quebec, there to join the force sent under Arnold through
the Maine wilderness from the rebel main army at Cambridge, he could
take with him but three hundred men--so had the patriot warriors of
New York fallen off in zeal and numbers! But you may be sure it was
not from Philip's letters that we got these items disadvantageous to
his cause.
Our last word from him was when he was in quarters before Quebec:
Cornelius was with him; and they were having a cold and snowy time of
it, waiting for Quebec to fall before them. He mentioned casually that
he had been raised to a captaincy: we afterward learned that this was
for brave conduct upon the occasion of a sally of Scotch troops from
one of the gates of Quebec to cut off a mortar battery and a body of
riflemen; Philip had not only saved the battery and the riflemen, but
had made prisoners of the sallying party.
Late in the Winter--that is to say, early in 1776--we learned of the
dire failure of the night attack made by the combined forces of
Montgomery and Arnold upon Quebec at the end of December, 1775; that
Arnold had been wounded, his best officers taken prisoners, and
Montgomery killed. The first reports said nothing of Winwood. When
Margaret heard the news, she turned white as a sheet; and at this
triumph of British arms my joy was far outweighed, Mr. Faringfield's
grief multiplied, by fears lest Philip, who we knew would shirk no
danger, had met a fate similar to his commander's. But subsequent news
told us that he was a prisoner, though severely wounded. We comforted
ourselves with considering that he was like to receive good nursing
from the French nuns of Quebec. And eventually we found the name of
Captain Winwood in a list of rebel prisoners who were to be exchanged;
from which, as a long time had passed, we inferred that he was now
recovered of his injuries; whereupon Margaret, who had never spoken of
him, or shown her solicitude other than by an occasional dispirited
self-abstraction, regained all her gaiety and was soon her old,
charming self again. In due course, we learned that the exchange of
prisoners had been effected, and that a number of officers (among whom
was Captain Winwood) had departed from Quebec, bound whither we were
not informed; and after that we lost track of him for many and many a
month.
Meanwhile, the war had made itself manifest in New York: at first
distantly, as by the passage of a few rebel companies from
Pennsylvania and Virginia through the town on their way to Cambridge;
by continued enlistments for the rebel cause; by the presence of a
small rebel force of occupation; and by quiet enrolments of us
loyalists for service when our time should come. But in the beginning
of the warm weather of 1776, the war became apparent in its own shape.
The king's troops under Sir William Howe had at last evacuated Boston
and sailed to Halifax, taking with them a host of loyalists, whose
flight was held up to us New York Tories as prophetic of our own fate.
Washington now supposed, rightly, that General Howe intended presently
to occupy New York; and so down upon our town, and the island on which
it was, and upon Long Island, came the rebel main army from Cambridge;
and brought some very bad manners with it, for all that there never
was a finer gentleman in the world than was at its head, and that I am
bound to own some of his officers and men to have been worthy of him
in good breeding. Here the army was reinforced by regiments from the
middle and Southern provinces; and for awhile we loyalists kept close
mouths. Margaret, indeed, for the time, ceased altogether to be a
loyalist, in consequence of the gallantry of certain officers in blue
and buff, and several Virginia dragoons in blue and red, with whom she
was brought into acquaintance through her father's attachment to the
rebel interest. She expanded and grew brilliant in the sunshine of
admiration (she had even a smile and compliment from Washington
himself, at a ball in honour of the rebel declaration of independence)
in which she lived during the time when New York abounded with rebel
troops.
But that was a short time; for the British disembarked upon Long
Island, met Washington's army there and defeated it, so that it had to
slip back to New York in boats by night; then landed above the town,
almost in time to cut it off as it fled Northward; fought part of it
on the heights of Harlem; kept upon its heels in Westchester County;
encountered it again near White Plains; and came back triumphant to
winter in and about New York. And now we loyalists and the rebel
sympathisers exchanged tunes; and Margaret was as much for the king
again as ever--she never cared two pins for either cause, I fancy,
save as it might, for the time being, serve her desire to shine.
She was radiant and joyous, and made no attempt to disguise her
feelings, when it was a settled fact that the British army should
occupy New York indefinitely.
"'Tis glorious!" said she, dancing up and down the parlour before Tom
and me. "This will be some relief from dulness, some consolation! The
town will be full of gallant generals and colonels, handsome majors,
dashing captains; there are lords and baronets among 'em; they'll be
quartered in all the good houses; there will be fine uniforms,
regimental bands, and balls and banquets! Why, I can quite endure
this! War has its compensations. We'll have a merry winter of it,
young gentlemen! Sure 'twill be like a glimpse of London."
"And there'll be much opportunity for vain ladies to have their heads
turned!" quoth Tom, half in jest, half in disapproval.
"I know nothing of that," says she, "but I do know whose sister will
be the toast of the British Army before a month is past!"
If the king's troops acquired a toast upon entering New York, the
rebels had gained a volunteer upon leaving it. One day, just before
Washington's army fled, Tom Faringfield came to me with a face all
amusement.
"Who do you think is the latest patriot recruit?" cried he. It was our
custom to give the rebels ironically their own denomination of
patriots.
"Not you nor I, at any rate," said I.
"But one of the family, nevertheless."
"Why, surely--your father has not--"
"Oh, no; only my father's eldest."
"Ned?"
"Nobody else. Fancy Ned taking the losing side! Oh, 'fore God, it's
true! He came home in a kind of uniform to-day, and told father what
he had done; the two had a long talk together in private after that;
and though father never shows his thoughts, I believe he really has
some hopes of Ned now. The rebels made a lieutenant of him, on
father's account. I wonder what his game is."
"I make no doubt, to curry favour with his father."
"Maybe. But perhaps to get an excuse for leaving town, and a way of
doing so. I've heard some talk--they say poor Sally Roberts's
condition is his work."
"Very like. Your brother is a terrible Adonis--with ladies of a
certain kind."
"Not such an Adonis neither--at least the Adonis that Venus courted in
Shakespeare's poem. Rather a Jove, I should say."
We did not then suspect the depth of Mr. Ned's contrivance or
duplicity. He left New York with the rebels, and 'twas some time ere
we saw, or heard of, him again.
And now at last several loyalist brigades were formed as auxiliaries
to the royal army, and Tom and I were soon happy in the consciousness
of serving our king, and in the possession of the green uniforms that
distinguished the local from the regular force. We were of Colonel
Cruger's battalion, of General Oliver De Lancey's brigade, and both
were so fortunate as to obtain commissions, Tom receiving that of
lieutenant, doubtless by reason of his mother's relationship to
General De Lancey, and I being made an ensign, on account of the
excellent memory in which my father was held by the loyal party. Mr.
Faringfield, like many another father in similar circumstances, was
outwardly passive upon his son's taking service against his own cause:
as a prudent man, he had doubtless seen from the first the advantage
of having a son actually under arms for the king, for it gave him and
his property such safety under the British occupation as even his
lady's loyalist affiliations might not have sufficed to do. Therefore
Tom, as a loyalist officer, was no less at home than formerly, in the
house of his rebel father. I know not how many such family situations
were brought about by this strange war.