_Winwood Comes to See His Wife._
'T were scarce possible to exaggerate the eagerness with which
Margaret looked forward to the execution of the great project. Her
anticipations, in the intensity and entirety with which they possessed
her, equalled those with which she had formerly awaited the trip to
England. She was now as oblivious of the festivities arising from the
army's presence, as she had been of the town's tame pleasures on the
former occasion. She showed, to us who had the key to her mind, a
deeper abstraction, a more anxious impatience, a keener foretaste (in
imagination) of the triumphs our success would bring her. Her
favourable expectations, of course, seesawed with fears of failure;
and sometimes there was preserved a balance that afflicted her with a
most irritating uncertainty, revealed by petulant looks and tones. But
by force of will, 'twas mainly in the hope of success that she passed
the few days between our meeting in the glade and the appointed
Wednesday evening.
"Tut, sister," warned Tom, with kind intention, "don't raise yourself
so high with hope, or you may fall as far with disappointment."
"Never fear, Tom; we can't fail."
"It looks all clear and easy, I allow," said he; "but there's many a
slip, remember!"
"Not two such great slips to the same person," she replied. "I had my
share of disappointment, when I couldn't go to London. This war, and
my stars, owe me a good turn, dear."
But when, at dusk on Wednesday evening, Tom and I took leave of her in
the hall, she was trembling like a person with a chill. Her eyes
glowed upon us beseechingly, as if she implored our Herculean
endeavours in the attempt now to be made.
We had to speak softly to one another, lest Mr. Faringfield might hear
and infer some particular enterprise--for we were not to hazard the
slightest adverse chance. Captain Falconer had been away from his
quarters all day, about the business of the night, and would not
return till after its accomplishment. Thus we two were the last to be
seen of her, of those bound to the adventure; and so to us were
visible the feelings with which she regarded the setting forth of our
whole company upon the project she had designed, for which she had
laboriously laid preparations even in the enemy's camp, and from which
she looked for a splendid future. Were it realised, she might defy Mr.
Faringfield and Philip: they would be nobodies, in comparison with
her: heroines belong to the whole world, and may have their choice of
the world's rewards: they may go where they please, love whom they
please, and no father nor husband may say them nay. Though I could not
but be sad, for Philip's sake, at thought of what effect our success
might have upon her, yet for the moment I seemed to view matters from
her side, with her nature, and for that moment I felt that to
disappoint her hopes would be a pity.
As for myself (and Tom was like me) my cause and duty, not Margaret's
private ambitions, bade me strive my utmost in the business; and my
youthful love of danger sent me forth with a most exquisite thrill, as
into the riskiest, most exhilarating game a man can play. So I too
trembled a little, but with an uplifting, strong-nerved excitement far
different from the anxious tremor of suspense that tortured Margaret.
"For pity's sake, don't fail, boys!" she said, as if all rested upon
us two. "Think of me waiting at home for the news! Heaven, how slow
the hours will pass! I sha'n't have a moment's rest of mind or body
till I know!"
"You shall know as soon as we can get back to New York," said I.
"Ay--if we are able to come back," added Tom, with a queer smile.
She turned whiter, and new thoughts seemed to sweep into her mind. But
she drove them back.
"Hush, Tom, we mustn't think of that!" she whispered. "No, no, it
can't come to that! But I shall be a thousand times the more anxious!
Good night!--that's all I shall say--good night and a speedy and safe
return!"
She caught her brother's head between her hands, bestowed a fervent
kiss upon his forehead, swiftly pressed my fingers, and opened the
door for us.
We passed out into the dark, frosty evening. There was snow on the
ground but none in the air. We mounted our waiting horses, waved back
a farewell to the white-faced, white-handed figure in the doorway; and
started toward the ferry. Margaret was left alone with her
fast-beating heart, to her ordeal of mingled elation and doubt, her
dread of crushing disappointment, her visions of glorious triumph.
At the ferry we reported to Captain Falconer, who was expeditiously
sending each rider and horse aboard one of the waiting flat-boats as
soon as each arrived. Thus was avoided the assemblage, for any length
of time, of a special body of horsemen in the streets--for not even
the army, let alone the townspeople, should know more of our setting
forth than could not be hid. The departure of those who were to embark
from the town was managed with exceeding quietness and rapidity.
Captain Falconer and the man who was to guide us to Edward
Faringfield's trysting-place were the last to board.
Upon rounding the lower end of the town, and crossing the Hudson to
Paulus Hook, which post our troops had reoccupied after the rebel
capture of its former garrison, we went ashore and were joined by men
and horses from up the river, and by others from Staten Island. We
then exchanged our hats for the caps taken from the rebel cavalry,
donned the blue surtouts, and set out; Captain Falconer and the guide
riding at the head.
For a short distance we kept to the Newark road, but, without
proceeding to that town, we deviated to the right, and made
Northwestwardly, the purpose being to pass through a hiatus in the
semicircle of rebel detached posts, turn the extremity of the main
army, and approach Morristown--where Washington had his
headquarters--from a side whence a British force from New York might
be the less expected.
Each man of us carried a sword and two pistols, having otherwise no
burden but his clothes. At first we walked our horses, but presently
we put them to a steady, easy gallop. The snow on the ground greatly
muffled the sound of our horses' footfalls, and made our way less
invisible than so dark a night might have allowed. But it made
ourselves also the more likely to be seen; though scarce at a great
distance nor in more than brief glimpses, for the wind raised clouds
of fine snow from the whitened fields, the black growth of tree and
brush along the road served now as curtain for us, now as background
into which our outlines might sink, and a stretch of woods sometimes
swallowed us entirely from sight. Besides, on such a night there would
be few folk outdoors, and if any of these came near, or if we were
seen from farmhouses or village windows, our appearance of rebel horse
would protect our purpose. So, in silence all, following our captain
and his guide, we rode forward to seize the rebel chief, and make
several people's fortunes.
I must now turn to Philip Winwood, and relate matters of which I was
not a witness, but with which I was subsequently made acquainted in
all minuteness.
We had had no direct communication with Philip since the time after
our capture of Mr. Cornelius, who, as every exchange of prisoners had
passed him by, still remarked upon parole at Mr. Faringfield's. If Mr.
Faringfield received news of Winwood through his surreptitious
messenger, Bill Meadows, he kept it to himself, naturally making a
secret of his being in correspondence with General Washington.
Though Philip knew of Meadows's perilous employment, he would not risk
the fellow's discovery even to Margaret, and so refrained from laying
upon him the task of a message to her. How she found out what Meadows
was engaged in, I cannot guess, unless it was that, unheeded in the
house as she was unheeding, she chanced to overhear some talk between
her father and him, or to detect him in the bringing of some letter
which she afterward took the trouble secretly to peep into. Nor did I
ever press to know by what means she had induced him to serve as
messenger between her and Ned, and to keep this service hidden from
her father and husband and all the world. Maybe she pretended a desire
to hear of her husband without his knowing she had so far softened
toward him, and a fear of her father's wrath if he learned she made
Ned her correspondent in the matter. Perhaps she added to her gentler
means of persuasion a veiled threat of exposing Meadows to the British
if he refused. In any event, she knew that, once enlisted, he could be
relied on for the strictest obedience to her wishes. It needed not, in
his case, the additional motive for secrecy, that a knowledge of his
employment on Margaret's business would compromise him with General
Washington and Mr. Faringfield.
How Meadows contrived to meet Ned, to open the matter to him, to
convey the ensuing correspondence, to avoid discovery upon this matter
in the rebel camp, as he avoided it upon Washington's business in New
York, is beyond me: if it were not, I should be as skilful, as fit for
such work, as Meadows himself. 'Tis well-known now what marvellously
able secret agents Washington made use of; how to each side many of
them had to play the part of spies upon the other side; how they were
regarded with equal suspicion in both camps; and how some of them
really served their enemies in order finally to serve their friends.
More than one of them, indeed, played a double game, receiving pay
from both sides, and earning it from both, each commander conceiving
himself to be the one benefited. In comparison with such duplicity,
the act of Meadows, in undertaking Margaret's private business as a
secret matter adjunctive to his main employment, was honesty itself.
'Tis thus explained why, though Margaret might communicate with her
brother in the enemy's camp, she got no word from her husband there.
But his thoughts and his wishes had scarce another subject than
herself. The desire to see her, possessed him more and more wholly. He
imagined that her state of mind must in this be a reflection of his
own. Long ago her anger must have died--nay, had it not passed in that
farewell embrace when she held up her face to invite his kiss? The
chastening years of separation, the knowledge of his toils and
dangers, must have wrought upon her heart, to make it more tender to
him than ever. She must grieve at their parting, long for his
home-coming. So convinced was he of such feelings on her part, that he
pitied her for them, felt the start of many a tear in sorrow for her
sorrow.
"Poor girl!" he thought. "How her face would gladden if I were to walk
into her presence at this moment!"
And the thought gave birth to the resolution. The joy of such a
meeting was worth a thousand risks and efforts.
His first step was to get leave of absence and General Washington's
permission to enter New York. The former was quickly obtained, the
latter less so. But if he failed to demonstrate to the commander the
possible profit of his secretly visiting the enemy's town, he
convinced him that the entrance was not too difficult to one who knew
the land so well, and who could so easily find concealment.
Sympathising with Philip's private motive in the case, trusting him
implicitly, and crediting his ability to take care of himself in even
so perilous a matter, Washington finally gave consent.
Philip rode in proper manner from the rebel camp, bound apparently
Southward, as if perchance he bore despatches to the rebel civil
authorities at Philadelphia. Once out of observation, he concealed his
uniform cap and outer coat, and provided himself at a New Jersey
village with an ordinary felt hat, and a plain dark overcoat. He then
turned from the Southward road, circled widely about the rebel camp,
and arrived at a point some distance north of it. Here, in a
hospitable farmhouse, he passed the night. The next day, he rode
Eastward for the Hudson River, crossing undiscovered the scanty,
ill-patrolled line of rebel outposts, and for the most part refraining
from use of the main roads, deserted as these were. By woods and
by-ways, he proceeded as best the snow-covered state of the country
allowed. 'Twas near dusk on the second day, when he came out upon the
wooded heights that looked coldly down upon the Hudson a few miles
above the spot opposite the town of New York.
He looked across the river and Southeastward, knowing that beyond the
low hills and the woods lay the town, and that in the town was
Margaret. Then he rode back from the crest of the cliff till he came
to the head of a ravine. Down this he led his beast, arriving finally
at the narrow strip of river-bank at the cliff's foot. He followed
this some distance Southward, still leading the horse. 'Twas not yet
so dark that he could not make out a British sloop-of-war, and further
down the river the less distinct outline of a frigate, serving as
sentinels and protectors of this approach to the town. From these he
was concealed by the bushes that grew at the river's edge.
At last he turned into the mouth of a second ravine, and, rounding a
sharp side-spur of the interrupted cliff, came upon a log hut built
upon a small level shelf of earth. At one end of this structure was a
pent-roof. Philip tied his horse thereunder, and, noting a kind of dim
glow through the oiled paper that filled the cabin's single window,
gave two double knocks followed by a single one, upon the plank door.
This was soon opened, and Philip admitted to the presence of the
single occupant, an uncouth fellow, fisherman and hunter, whose
acquaintance he had made in patrolling the New Jersey side at the head
of his troop. The man was at heart with the rebels, and Winwood knew
with whom he had to deal. Indeed Philip had laid his plans carefully
for this hazardous visit, in accordance with his knowledge of the
neighbourhood and of what he might rely upon.
"I wish to borrow one of your canoes, Ellis," said he, "and beg your
attention to my horse, which is in the shed. Be so kind as to give it
feed, and to cover it with a blanket if you have such a thing. But
leave it in the shed, and ready saddled; I may have to ride in a
hurry. I sha'n't need you with me in the canoe--nor any supper, I
thank you, sir."
For the man, with the taciturn way of his kind, had motioned toward
some pork frying at a fire. With no thought to press, or to question,
he replied:
"I'll fetch the canoe down the gully, cap'n. You stay here and warm
yourself a minute. And don't worry about your hoss, sir."
A few minutes later, Philip was launched upon the dark current of the
Hudson, paddling silently toward the Eastern shore. Darkness had now
fallen, and he trusted it to hide him from the vigilance of the
British vessels whose lights shone dim and uncertain down the river.
Much larger craft landed much larger crews within our lines, on no
darker nights--as, for one case, when the Whigs came down in
whaleboats and set fire to the country mansion of our General De
Lancey at Bloomingdale. Philip made the passage unseen, and drew the
canoe up to a safe place under some bushes growing from the face of a
low bluff that rose from the slight beach. His heart galloped and
glowed at sense of being on the same island with his wife. He was
thrilled to think that, if all went well, within an hour or two he
should hold her in his arms.
He saw to the priming of his pistols, and loosened the sword that hung
beneath his overcoat; and then he glided some way down the strip of
beach. Coming to a convenient place, he clambered up the bluff, to a
cleared space backed by woods.
"Who goes there?"
'Twas the voice of a man who had suddenly halted in the clearing,
half-way between the woods and the crest of the bluff. The snow on the
ground enabled the two to descry each other. Winwood saw the man raise
a musket to his shoulder.
"A word with you, friend," said Philip, and strode swiftly forward ere
the sentinel (who was a loyalist volunteer, not a British regular) had
the wit to fire. Catching the musket-barrel with one hand, Winwood
clapped his pistol to the soldier's breast with the other.
"Now," says he, "if you give a sound, I'll send a bullet through you.
If I pass here, 'twill bring you no harm, for none shall know it but
us two. Let go your musket a moment--I'll give it back to you, man."
A pressure of the pistol against the fellow's ribs brought obedience.
Philip dropped the musket, and, with his foot, dug its lock into the
snow, spoiling the priming.
"Now," he continued, "I'll leave you, and remember, if you raise an
alarm, you'll be blamed for not firing upon me."
Whereupon Philip dashed into the woods, leaving the startled sentinel
to pick up his musket and resume his round as if naught had occurred.
The man knew that his own comfort lay in secrecy, and his comfort
outweighed his military conscience.
Through woods and fields Winwood proceeded, skirted swamps and ponds,
and waded streams, traversing old familiar ground, the sight of which
brought back memories of countless holiday rambles in the happy early
days. Margaret's bright face and merry voice, her smiles, and her
little displays of partiality for him, were foremost in each
recollection; and that he was so soon to see her again, appeared too
wonderful for belief. He went forward in the intoxication of joy,
singing to himself as a boy would have done.
He knew where there were houses and barns to avoid, and where there
were most like to be British cantonments. At length he was so near the
town, that he was surprised to have come upon no inner line of
sentries. Even as he wondered, he emerged from a copse into a field,
and received the usual challenge--spoken this time in so quick,
machine-like a manner, and accompanied by so prompt and precise a
levelling of the musket, that he knew 'twas a British regular he had
to deal with.
He made a pretence of raising a pistol to shoot down the sentry. This
brought the sentry's fire, which--as it too was of a British regular
of those days--Philip felt safe in risking. But though the shot went
far wide, he gave a cry as if he had been hit, and staggered back into
the woods. He was no sooner within its cover, than he ran swiftly
Eastward with all possible silence. He had noted that the sentry had
been pacing in that direction; hence the first of the sentry's
comrades to run up would be the one approaching therefrom. This would
leave a break in the line, at that part of it East of the scene of the
alarm. Philip stopped presently; peered forth from the woods, saw the
second sentry hasten with long steps Westward; and then made a dash
across the latter's tracks, bending low his body as he went. He thus
reached a cover of thicket, through which he forced his way in time to
emerge toward the town ere any results of the alarming gun-shot were
manifest.
Unless he were willing to attempt crossing what British defences he
knew not, or other impediments that might bar passage to the town
elsewhere than at the Bowery lane entrance, he must now pass the guard
there, which served for the town itself as the outer barriers at
Kingsbridge served for the whole island of Manhattan. He chose the
less tedious, though more audacious alternative of facing the guard.
He could not employ in this case the method used in passing the shore
patrol, or that adopted in crossing the line of sentinels above the
town; for here the road was the only open way through, it was flanked
by a guardhouse, it was lighted by a lantern that hung above the door,
and the sentinels were disciplined men. Philip gathered these facts in
a single glance, as he approached by slinking along the side of the
road, into which he had crawled, through a rail fence, from an
adjoining field.
He was close upon the sentinels who paced before the guardhouse, ere
he was discovered. For the third time that night, he heard the
challenge and saw the threatening movement.
"All's well," he replied. "I'll give an account of myself." And he
stepped forward, grasping one of his pistols, not by the breech, but
by the barrel.
"Stop where you are!" said the sentry, menacingly.
Philip stood still, raised the pistol, flung it at the lantern, and
instantly dropped to his knees. The sentinel's musket flashed and
cracked. Total darkness ensued. Philip glided forward between the two
men, his footfalls drowned by the sound of their curses. When past
them, he hurled his remaining pistol back over his shoulder toward a
mass of bushes on the further side of the sentinels. Its descent
through the brush had some sound of a man's leap, and would, he hoped,
lead the enemy to think he might have escaped in that direction. By
the time the noise of a commotion reached him, with orders to turn out
the guard, he was past the building used as a prison for his fellow
rebels, and was hastening along the side of the common--now diverted
to camp uses of the British as it had been to those of the
rebels--able to find the rest of his way in Egyptian blackness. He
knew what alleys to take, what short cuts to make by traversing
gardens, what ways were most like to be deserted. The streets in the
part of the town through which he had to pass were nearly empty, the
taverns, the barracks, and most of the officers' quarters being
elsewhere. And so, with a heart elated beyond my power of expression,
he leaped finally into the rear garden of the Faringfield mansion, and
strode, as if on air, toward the veranda.
He had guessed that the family would be in the smaller parlour, or the
library, and so he was not surprised to see all the lower windows dark
that were visible from the direction of his approach. But, which gave
him a thrill of delightful conjecture, two upper windows shone with
light--those above the great parlour and hence belonging to one of the
chambers formerly occupied by Margaret and him. He knew no reason why
his wife should not still retain the same rooms. She would, then, be
there, and probably alone. He might go to her while none was present
to chill their meeting, none before whom her pride might induce her to
conceal the completeness of her reconciliation, or to moderate the joy
of her greeting. Would she weep? Would she laugh? Would she cry out?
Would she merely fall into his arms with a glad smile and cling in a
long embrace under his lingering kiss? He trembled like a schoolboy as
he climbed the trellis-work to enter by a window.
Creeping up the sloping, snow-covered roof of the veranda, he came at
length to the window, and looked in. The chamber was empty, but the
door was ajar that led to the apartment in front, used as a
sitting-room. She must be in that room, for his first glance had
recognised many of her trinkets and possessions in the first chamber.
He asked himself if the years had changed her: they would have made
her a little graver, doubtless.
He opened the window so slowly that the noise was scarce perceptible.
Then he clambered over the ledge into the chamber; strode tiptoe
toward the next room, catching a mirrored glimpse of his face as he
passed her dressing-table--the most joyous, eager face in the world.
He pushed the door further open, and stepped across the threshold. She
was there, in the centre of the room, standing in meditation, her face
turned by chance toward the door through which he entered.
"My dear," said he, in a voice scarce above a whisper; and started
toward her, with arms held out, and (I am sure) a very angel's smile
of joy and love upon his face.
She opened her eyes and lips in wonder, and then stood pale and rigid
as marble, and made a faint gesture to check his approach. As he
halted in astonishment, his joy dying at her look, she whispered
hoarsely:
"You! You, of all men? And to-night, of all nights!"
'Twas the night of our setting forth upon her great design of seizing
his commander-in-chief.