_I Meet an Old Friend in the Dark._
I shall not give an account of my military service, since it entered
little into the history of Philip Winwood. 'Twas our duty to help man
the outposts that guarded the island at whose Southern extremity New
York lies, from rebel attack; especially from the harassments of the
partisan troops, and irregular Whiggery, who would swoop down in
raiding parties, cut off our foragers, drive back our wood-cutters,
and annoy us in a thousand ways. We had such raiders of our own, too,
notably Captain James De Lancey's Westchester Light Horse, Simcoe's
Rangers, and the Hessian yagers, who repaid the visits of our enemies
by swift forays across the neutral ground between the two armies.
But this warfare did not exist in its fulness till later, when the
American army formed about us an immense segment of a circle, which
began in New Jersey, ran across Westchester County in New York
province, and passed through a corner of Connecticut to Long Island
Sound. On our side, we occupied Staten Island, part of the New Jersey
shore, our own island, lower Westchester County, and that portion of
Long Island nearest New York. But meanwhile, the rebel main army was
in New Jersey in the Winter of 1776-77, surprising some of our
Hessians at Trenton, overcoming a British force at Princeton, and
going into quarters at Morristown. And in the next year, Sir William
Howe having sailed to take Philadelphia with most of the king's
regulars (leaving General Clinton to hold New York with some royal
troops and us loyalists), the fighting was around the rebel capital,
which the British, after two victories, held during the Winter of
1777-78, while Washington camped at Valley Forge.
In the Fall of 1777, we thought we might have news of Winwood, for in
the Northern rebel army to which General Burgoyne then capitulated,
there were not only many New York troops, but moreover several of the
officers taken at Quebec, who had been exchanged when Philip had. But
of him we heard nothing, and from him it was not likely that we should
hear. Margaret never mentioned him now, and seemed to have forgotten
that she possessed a husband. Her interest was mainly in the British
officers still left in New York, and her impatience was for the return
of the larger number that had gone to Philadelphia. To this impatience
an end was put in the Summer of 1778, when the main army marched back
to us across New Jersey, followed part way by the rebels, and fighting
with them at Monmouth Court House. 'Twas upon this that the lines I
have mentioned, of British outposts protecting New York, and rebel
forces surrounding us on all sides but that of the sea, were
established in their most complete shape; and that the reciprocal
forays became most frequent.
And now, too, the British occupation of New York assumed its greatest
proportions. The kinds of festivity in which Margaret so brilliantly
shone, lent to the town the continual gaiety in which she so keenly
delighted. The loyalist families exerted themselves to protect the
king's officers from dulness, and the king's officers, in their own
endeavours to the same end, helped perforce to banish dulness from the
lives of their entertainers. 'Twas a gay town, indeed, for some folk,
despite the vast ugly blotches wrought upon its surface by two great
fires since the war had come, and despite the scarcity of provisions
and the other inconveniences of a virtual state of siege. Tom and I
saw much of that gaiety, for indeed at that time our duties were not
as active as we wished they might be, and they left us leisure enough
to spend in the town. But we were pale candles to the European
officers--the rattling, swearing, insolent English, the tall and
haughty Scots, the courtly Hessians and Brunswickers.
"What, sister, have we grown invisible, Bert and I?" said Tom to
Margaret, as we met her in the hall one night, after we had returned
from a ball in the Assembly Rooms. "Three times we bowed to you this
evening, and got never a glance in return."
"'Faith," says she, with a smile, "one can't see these green uniforms
for the scarlet ones!"
"Ay," he retorted, with less good-humour than she had shown, "the
scarlet coats blind some people's eyes, I think, to other things than
green uniforms."
It was, I fancy, because Tom had from childhood adored her so much,
that he now took her conduct so ill, and showed upon occasion a
bitterness that he never manifested over any other subject.
"What do you mean, you saucy boy?" cried she, turning red, and looking
mighty handsome. "You might take a lesson or two in manners from some
of the scarlet coats!"
"Egad, they wouldn't find time to give me lessons, being so busy with
you! But which of your teachers do you recommend--Captain Andre, Lord
Rawdon, Colonel Campbell, or the two Germans whose names I can't
pronounce? By George, you won't be happy till you have Sir Henry
Clinton and General Knyphausen disputing for the front place at your
feet!"
[Illustration: "SHE WAS INDEED THE TOAST OF THE ARMY."]
She softened from anger to a little laugh of conscious triumph, tapped
him with her fan, and sped up the stairs. Her prediction had come
true. She was indeed the toast of the army. Her mother apparently saw
no scandal in this, being blinded by her own partiality to the royal
side. Her father knew it not, for he rarely attended the British
festivities, from which he could not in reason debar his wife and
daughters. Fanny was too innocent to see harm in what her sister did.
But Tom and I, though we never spoke of it to each other, were made
sensitive, by our friendship for Philip, to the impropriety of the
situation--that the wife of an absent American officer should reign as
a beauty among his military enemies. I make no doubt but the
circumstance was commented upon, with satirical smiles at the expense
of both husband and wife, by the British officers themselves. Indeed I
once heard her name mentioned, not as Mrs. Winwood, but as "Captain
Winwood's wife," with an expression of voice that made me burn to
plant my fist in the leering face of the fellow who spoke--some
low-born dog, I'll warrant, who had paid high for his commission.
It was a custom of Tom's and mine to put ourselves, when off duty
together, in the way of more active service than properly fell to us,
by taking horse and riding to the eastern side of the Harlem River,
where was quartered the troop of Tom's relation, James De Lancey. In
more than one of the wild forays of these horsemen, did we take an
unauthorised part, and find it a very exhilarating business.
One cold December afternoon in 1778, we got private word from Captain
De Lancey that he was for a raid up the Albany road, that night, in
retaliation for a recent severe onslaught made upon our Hessian post
near Colonel Van Cortlandt's mansion, either ('twas thought) by Lee's
Virginia Light Horse or by the partisan troop under the French
nobleman known in the rebel service as Armand.
At nightfall we were on the gallop with De Lancey's men, striking the
sparks from the stony road under a cloudy sky. But these troops,
accustomed to darkness and familiar with the country, found the night
not too black for their purpose, which was, first, the seizing of some
cattle that two or three Whig farmers had contrived to retain
possession of, and, second, the surprising of a small advanced post
designed to protect rebel foragers. The first object was fairly well
accomplished, and a detail of men assigned to conduct the prizes back
to Kingsbridge forthwith, a difficult task for which those upon whom
it fell cursed their luck, or their commander's orders, under their
breath. One of the farmers, for stubbornly resisting, was left tied to
a tree before his swiftly dismantled house, and only Captain De
Lancey's fear of alarming the rebel outpost prevented the burning down
of the poor fellow's barn.
The taking of these cattle had necessitated our leaving the highway.
To this we now returned, and proceeded Northward to where the road
crosses the Neperan River, near the Philipse manor-house. Instead of
crossing this stream, we turned to the right, to follow its left bank
some way upward, and then ascended the hill East of it, on which the
rebel post was established. Our course, soon after leaving the road,
lay through woods, the margin of the little river affording us only
sufficient clear space for proceeding in single file. De Lancey rode
at the head, then went two of his men, then Tom Faringfield and
myself, the troop stringing out behind us, the lieutenant being at the
rear.
'Twas slow and toilsome riding; and only the devil's own luck, or some
marvellous instinct of our horses, spared us many a stumble over
roots, stones, twigs, and underbrush. What faint light the night
retained for well-accustomed eyes, had its source in the
cloud-curtained moon, and that being South of us, we were hidden in
the shadow of the woods. But 'tis a thousand wonders the noise of our
passage was not sooner heard, though De Lancey's stern command for
silence left no sound possible from us except that of our horses and
equipments. I fancy 'twas the loud murmur of the stream that shielded
us. But at last, as we approached the turning of the water, where we
were to dismount, surround the rebels hutted upon the hill before us,
creep silently upon them, and attack from all sides at a signal, there
was a voice drawled out of the darkness ahead of us the challenge:
"Who goes thar?"
We heard the click of the sentinel's musket-lock; whereupon Captain De
Lancey, in hope of gaining the time to seize him ere he could give the
alarm, replied, "Friends," and kept riding on.
"You're a liar, Jim De Lancey!" cried back the sentinel, and fired his
piece, and then (as our ears told us) fled through the woods, up the
hill, toward his comrades.
There was now nothing for us but to abandon all thought of surrounding
the enemy, or even, we told ourselves, of taking time to dismount and
bestow our horses; unless we were willing to lose the advantage of a
surprise at least partial, as we were not. We could but charge on
horseback up the hill, after the fleeing sentinel, in hope of coming
upon the rebels but half-prepared. Or rather, as we then felt, so we
chose to think, foolish as the opinion was. Indeed what could have
been more foolish, less military, more like a tale of fabulous knights
in some enchanted forest? A cavalry charge, with no sort of regular
formation, up a wooded hill, in a night dark enough in the open but
sheer black under the thick boughs; to meet an encamped enemy at the
top! But James De Lancey's men were noted rather for reckless dash
than for military prudence; they felt best on horseback, and would
accept a score of ill chances and fight in the saddle, rather than a
dozen advantages and go afoot. I think they were not displeased at
their discovery by the sentinel, which gave them an excuse for a
harebrained onset ahorse, in place of the tedious manoeuvre afoot that
had been planned. As for Tom and me, we were at the age when a man
will dare the impossible.
So we went, trusting to the sense of our beasts, or to dumb luck, to
carry us unimpeded through the black woods. As it was, a few of the
animals ran headforemost against trees, and others stumbled over roots
and logs, while some of the riders had their heads knocked nearly off
by coming in contact with low branches. But a majority of us, to judge
by the noise we made, arrived with our snorting, panting steeds at the
hill-crest; where, in a cleared space, and fortified with felled
trees, upheaved earth, forage carts, and what not, stood the
improvised cabins of the rebels.
Three or four shots greeted us as we emerged from the thick wood. We,
being armed with muskets and pistols as well as swords, returned the
fire, and spurred our horses on toward the low breastwork, which, as
it was not likely to have anything of a trench behind it, we thought
to overleap either on horse or afoot. But the fire that we met, almost
at the very barrier, felled so many of our horses and men, raised such
a hellish chorus of wild neighing, cries of pain and wrath, ferocious
curses and shouts of vengeance, that the men behind reined up
uncertain. De Lancey turned upon his horse, waved his sword, and
shouted for the laggards to come on. We had only the light of musketry
to see by. Tom Faringfield was unhorsed and down; and fearing he might
be wounded, I leaped to the ground, knelt, and partly raised him. He
was unharmed, however; and we both got upon our feet, with our swords
out, our discharged muskets slung round upon our backs, our intent
being to mount over the rebel's rude rampart--for we had got an
impression of De Lancey's sword pointed that way while he fiercely
called upon his troops to disregard the fallen, and each man charge
for himself in any manner possible, ahorse or afoot.
But more and more of the awakened rebels--we could make out only their
dark figures--sprang forward from their huts (mere roofs, 'twere
better to call these) to the breastwork, each waiting to take careful
aim at our mixed-up mass of men and horses before he fired into it. As
Tom and I were extricating ourselves from the mass by scrambling over
a groaning man or two, and a shrieking, kicking horse that lay on its
side, De Lancey rode back to enforce his commands upon the men at our
rear, some of whom were firing over our heads. His turning was
mistaken for a movement of retreat, not only by our men, of whom the
unhurt promptly made to hasten down the hill, but also by the enemy, a
few of whom now leaped from behind their defence to pursue.
Tom and I, not yet sensible of the action of our comrades, were
striding forward to mount the rampart, when this sally of rebels
occurred. Though it appalled us at the time, coming so unexpectedly,
it was the saving of us; for it stopped the fire of the rebels
remaining behind the barrier, lest they should hit their comrades. A
ringing voice, more potent than a bugle, now called upon these latter
to come back, in a tone showing their movement to have been without
orders. They speedily obeyed; all save one, a tall, broad
fellow--nothing but a great black figure in the night, to our
sight--who had rushed with a clubbed musket straight upon Tom and me.
A vague sense of it circling through the air, rather than distinct
sight of it, told me that his musket-butt was aimed at Tom's head.
Instinctively I flung up my sword to ward off the blow; and though of
course I could not stop its descent, I so disturbed its direction that
it struck only Tom's shoulder; none the less sending him to the ground
with a groan. With a curse, I swung my sword--a cut-and-thrust
blade-of-all-work, so to speak--with some wild idea of slicing off a
part of the rebel's head; but my weapon was hacked where it met him,
and so it merely made him reel and drop his musket. The darkness
falling the blacker after the glare of the firing, must have cloaked
these doings from the other rebels. Tom rose, and the two of us fell
upon our enemy at once, I hissing out the words, "Call for quarter,
you dog!"
"Very well," he said faintly, quite docile from having had his senses
knocked out of him by my blow, and not knowing at all what was going
on.
"Come then," said I, and grasped him by an arm, while Tom held him at
the other side; and so the three of us ran after De Lancey and his
men--for the captain had followed in vain attempt to rally them--into
the woods and down the hill. Tom's horse was shot, and mine had fled.
Our prisoner accompanied us with the unquestioning obedience of one
whose wits are for the time upon a vacation. Getting into the current
of retreat, which consisted of mounted men, men on foot, riderless
horses, and the wrathful captain whose enterprise was now quite
hopeless through the enemy's being well warned against a second
attempt, we at last reached the main road.
Here, out of a chaotic huddle, order was formed, and to the men left
horseless, mounts were given behind other men. Captain De Lancey
assigned a beast to myself and my prisoner. The big rebel clambered up
behind me, with the absent-minded acquiescence he had displayed ever
since my stroke had put his wits asleep. As we started dejectedly
Southward, full of bruises, aches, and weariness, there was some
question whether the rebels would pursue us.
"Not if their officer has an ounce of sense," said Captain De Lancey,
"being without horses, as he is. He's scarce like to play the fool by
coming down, as I did in charging up! Well, we've left some wounded to
his care. Who is their commander? Ask your prisoner, Lieutenant
Russell."
I turned on my saddle and put the query, but my man vouchsafed merely
a stupid, "Hey?"
"Shake him back to his senses," said De Lancey, stopping his horse, as
I did mine, and Tom his.
But shaking did not suffice.
"This infernal darkness helps to cloud his wits," suggested the
captain. "Flash a light before his eyes. Here, Tippet, your lantern,
please."
I continued shaking the prisoner, while the lantern was brought.
Suddenly the man gave a start, looked around into the black night, and
inquired in a husky, small voice:
"Who are you? Where are we?"
"We are your captors," said I, "and upon the Hudson River road, bound
for Kingsbridge. And now, sir, who are you?"
But the rays of the lantern, falling that instant upon his face,
answered my question for me.
"Cornelius!" I cried.
"What, sir? Why--'tis Mr. Russell!"
"Ay, and here is Tom Faringfield," said I.
"Well, bless my soul!" exclaimed the pedagogue, grasping the hand that
Tom held to him out of the darkness.
"Mr. Cornelius, since that is your name," put in De Lancey, to whom
time was precious. "Will you please tell us who commands yonder, where
we got the reception our folly deserved, awhile ago?"
"Certainly, sir," said Cornelius. "'Tis no harm, I suppose--no
violation of duty or custom?"
"Not in the least," said I.
"Why then, sir," says he, "since yesterday, when we relieved the
infantry there--we are dragoons, sir, though dismounted for this
particular service--a new independent troop, sir--Winwood's Horse--"
"Winwood's!" cried I.
"Ay, Captain Winwood's--Mr. Philip, you know--'tis he commands our
post yonder."
"Oh, indeed!" said De Lancey, carelessly. "A relation of mine by
marriage."
But for a time I had nothing to say, thinking how, after these years
of separation, Philip and I had come so near meeting in the night, and
known it not; and how, but for the turn of things, one of us might
have given the other his death-blow unwittingly in the darkness.