CHAPTER V
I
The wayfarer on this July afternoon in the fifth year of American Independence might have passed on the main thoroughfare leading into the city of Philadelphia from the townships of Bristol and Trenton, a young and powerfully built officer astride a spirited chestnut mare. The countryside, through which he was journeying, stretched for miles around in peaceful solitude, teeming and delightful with that leafy and rich green livery which we are accustomed to associate with the idea of abundance. Overhead the sky was clear, from which the sun blazed down great billows of heat that hovered over the landscape, giving vigor and enthusiasm to the various forms of vegetable life, but at the same time causing the animal world to drowse and languish in discomfort.
It was plain to be seen that the horseman was an officer of the Continental Army. His mount, young and well groomed, gave every indication of a long ride, its nostrils dilated, its mouth moist with foam, its sides streaky with strings of sweat. Haste was desired, it was apparent, although in the more exposed portions of the roadway the mare was allowed to walk, her rider affectionately patting her neck or coaxing her along with an encouraging remark.
"Look, Dolly! There is some soft, tender grass to cool your lips. We shall take some."
And he turned the mare to the side of the road and allowed her to nibble at the greensward.
Soon they were again on their way, she munching the while on the last mouthful, now walking, now impatiently breaking into a canter; Stephen, holding her in check with his hand, looked far ahead at the roofs of the city beyond. Through his mind there passed in review the incidents of the day, the memory of his business just concluded, the speculation of the future of the army, the contemplation of his reception by Marjorie.
He had been away for more than a month. During that time he was engaged in business of the gravest nature. Many hours had been spent in the company of the Commander-in-chief before whom he had laid an account of his varied activities in the city. The proposed plan for the formation of the regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers, with all its ramifications and side issues, together with an account of his own adventures in its respect, was reported faithfully and accurately to his superior. The person of John Anderson, his suspicions concerning him, the strangely formed friendship of the spy with the Military Governor, were indicated with only that amount of reserve necessary to distinguish a moral from an absolute certitude. Events had moved with great rapidity, yet he felt assured that the real crisis was only now impending, for which reason he desired to return to the city so as to be ready for any service which might be required.
"Go along, girl. We want to reach home by noon."
Dolly heeded him and began to canter.
Washington had not taken kindly to his suggestion for the recall of General Arnold's command; in fact he had treated the proposal with a scorn worthy of his strong sense and dauntless courage. It was plain to be seen that His Excellency had placed much reliance and confidence in his favorite officer. It was impossible to create so much as a suspicion in the mind of him, who had been compelled to endure irksome suppression at the hands of a cabalistic and jealous military party, and who, for that very reason, took a magnanimous view of the plight of one beset with similar persecutions. General Arnold was in his eyes a brave and fearless leader, but one unfortunately annoyed and tormented by the machinations of an ungrateful and intolerant populace.
And so when it came to pass that the one General, whom he had admired and trusted, applied for an active command in the field, General Washington cordially granted the request. If the wounded limb would permit it, there was no doubt in the mind of His Excellency that General Arnold would prove the most heroic and able officer along the line. Lincoln was gone, having been forced to surrender with his entire army at Charleston only six weeks before. Green was engaged with the army in the Carolinas; Gates was a coward; Lee, a traitor. In the important operations which were soon to take place with the main army in the vicinity of New York, Arnold was the leader best qualified for the task. Washington took extreme delight in appointing him to the command of the Right Wing of his own army and the Second in Command of the Continental forces.
It was with genuine reluctance that he consented to listen to the strange story as unfolded by his aide-de-camp, Captain Meagher. That General Arnold should openly countenance rebellion was preposterous; to become a party to it was incredible. Yet the veracity of his aide was unquestionable, and the wealth of evidence which he had presented left little room for doubt. Still Washington's faith was unshaken. He felt assured that his favorite General would redeem himself when the proper time came. And every encouragement for this redemption would be afforded him.
West Point was open. He would recall the order appointing him to the command of the army and make him commander of the fortification there. The exigencies of the times required a man of rare ability and genius at this post. Should there prove to be a shadow of truth in the allegations of his aide, the change of command would simplify the situation from whatever viewpoint it might be regarded. The country might be preserved, and Arnold's ambition at the same time given another opportunity.
Stephen ruminated over these events as he rode leisurely along. A genuine satisfaction was derived from the knowledge that his chief's confidence in him was still unshaken. He felt that he had effected a change of post for the man whom, above all other men, Washington most admired and respected; nevertheless he felt that at the same time he was only executing a service which would ultimately prove to be of incalculable value to the army and the nation. Arnold troubled him, but in command of a fortress he would occasion infinitely less worry and apprehension than in a responsible position in the field.
Marjorie delighted him. At Morristown he had found her letter; and his plans for the immediate present underwent a decided alteration. He had been ordered to make the journey to Hartford in attendance upon General Washington, who had already completed arrangements with Count Rochambeau and Admiral Ternay of the French navy for a conference there in reference to the proposed naval operations of the combined fleets. With the letter in his hand he had sought and obtained a further leave of absence from his Commander-in-chief in order that his own campaign for the winning of the lady of his heart might be brought to a quick and decisive termination.
He had left the city, not hurt nor wounded as she had supposed, but somewhat disappointed at the manner of her expression. Her apparent coolness and unconcern he had ascribed rather to her extreme diffidence and shyness than to want of appreciation or sincerity. That she truly cared for him, he knew full well; that he would eventually win her to him was a faltering conviction. But, now, there was no further doubt. She had written him pages into which she had poured out her heart in generous and unmistakable accents, and which he had read and re-read with growing delight.
Washington could not refuse his request. He made no attempt to conceal the nature of his mission and obtained not alone His Excellency's gracious permission but his sincere wishes for success as well. With a heart buoyant with joy and anticipation he spurred on his mare and pushed her to her worth in the direction of the city and the object of his quest.
II
He rode into the city well aware that the first news to reach him would be that of the exodus of the Arnolds.
"You came straight through town, I suppose?"
"Yes," replied Stephen.
"And came here direct?" continued Mr. Allison.
"I quartered my mare, first. I thought immediately of the Inn as the place to gather the news. So I hastened hither."
"There's been heaps doin'," Jim remarked casually.
"Never saw such excitement since the day of the regiment," observed the keeper of the Inn, a well-mannered and well-educated gentleman, above middle age, who held the enviable position of inn-keeper and lawyer alike. Every inn-keeper of this age commanded much of respect in the community, for it was he who received the money of the people, and money commanded the necessities of life – a good bed, good things to eat, attentive servants; but Mr. Smith, the keeper of the Old London Coffee House, was the most respectable inn-keeper in the city, the proud possessor of a very pretty library and an excellent table where cleanliness and decency vied with dignity and self-respect.
"Arnold, you know, has left the city," volunteered Mr. Allison.
"Yes, I have surmised," was the reply.
"Gone, an' all belongin' to 'im."
"And closed his mansion?" Stephen inquired.
"Tight. Mrs. Arnold went with him. They left yesterday."
"But I thought – "
"To the army? I understand he had been appointed to field duty under Washington. Second in Command, they say. But that has been changed. He has gone to West Point."
Stephen did not answer.
"It seems," went on Mr. Allison, "that he has been seeking a change of post for several months. His leg still bothers him, however, and very likely prevented him from doing active duty in the field. On that account, it has been said, he was given charge of the fortress. It is an important post, nevertheless, and carries with it a certain amount of distinction."
"Hope he gits along better with 'em up there 'n he did here," remarked Jim. "He won't hev the s'ciety folks t' bother 'im now."
"When did he leave?"
"No one knows. There was no demonstration of any kind. It differed much from the farewell of General Howe. Arnold left in disgrace, it would seem," said the Inn-keeper, as he moved away to give his attention to other business.
"And Peggy gone, too?" Stephen was genuinely surprised at this, for he rather expected that she would remain with her mother.
"I am sure that the majority of our people are greatly pleased at the change," said Mr. Allison. "I never saw one sink to such depths of contempt. He came to the city as Military Governor in a blaze of triumph, the most celebrated soldier in the army, whose rise to popular esteem was only accelerated by the knowledge of the harsh treatment received by him at the hands of Congress after the battle of Saratoga. He was the idol alike of soldiers and civilians. Their hearts were his without the asking. That was two years ago. Today he left the city in the fullness of his years, in secret, after so many plaudits, in obloquy, after so much honor."
"It is a sad commentary on human nature," Stephen observed. "Yet in all things else I blame the woman. 'Cherchez la femme.'"
The room already was reeky from the clouds of tobacco smoke streaming upwards from the pipes of the several guests who were lounging in small groups about the room. There were several parties in as many corners, each wholly unconcerned about the other. The conversation of our trio was therefore private insofar as any privacy can be expected in an inn. Only the boisterous individual made himself heard, and then only to the displeasure of the others.
Leaving the two at the Inn, Stephen bade them adieu and directed his journey in the direction of Second Street. Hastening his steps he soon reached the Germantown road, and as he turned the bend perceived the familiar outline of the Allison home. Little did he suspect, however, that the curtains of one of the upper windows concealed a lithe form and that his swift gait was being interpreted with a world of meaning. He laid his hand on the gate, and even then Marjorie had opened the door to meet him.
III
"First of all," she said, "how long may you remain? Will you dine with us, or what?"
"I shall be most pleased. I have several days. His Excellency has gone to Hartford to engage in conference. It was intended that I should accompany the staff. I begged leave, however, to return to Philadelphia."
They were seated on the sofa in the distant corner of the parlor. They were quite alone now for the first time, the mother having asked to be excused after many minutes with the announcement that since he would be pleased to remain, the supper must needs be prepared. No, Marjorie need not help her. She might entertain Captain Meagher.
"It's glorious to see you again," he said, sitting down beside her after Mrs. Allison had departed from the room.
"I am glad you have come," she replied softly, rubbing her hand across her apron as if to arrange it neatly.
"But you knew that I would come, didn't you?"
"I thought so."
"And yet I greatly feared that it would not be possible. Preparations are being made for the final campaign, and it is expected that the French will be asked to play an important part."
"It was very generous of His Excellency to grant you leave."
He began to smile.
"Could you guess how I obtained it?" he asked.
She turned to regard him.
"What have you done?" she asked soberly.
"Showed him your letter."
"Stephen!" she gasped as she drew back.
Neither spoke. He continued to smile at her apparent concern, while she stared at him.
"Do you mean it?" she asked; then quickly – "or are you teasing?"
"I did. I showed the letter to him, and asked if I might return to you."
"He read it?"
"There! There! I am joking. He did not read it, but I did have it in my hand, and I told him about you and that I was going back to take you with me."
Satisfied, she allowed herself to assume a more relaxed composure.
"You are going to destroy it, aren't you?"
He took it from his pocket and looked at it. She, too, glanced at it, and then at him.
"May I keep it? I treasure every word of it, you know."
"Did you but know how it was composed, you might ridicule me."
"I suppose you closed yourself behind some great veil to shut out the world from your view. Your mind toiled with thought until you were resolved upon the heroic. There was no scheme nor formula; your quill ran on and on in obedience to the flood of ideas which inspired it."
She lapsed into meditation; but she recovered herself immediately.
"No," she shook her head slowly though steadily. "At midnight with the aid of a little candle which burned itself out quite before the end."
He looked up sharply.
"That night?"
She nodded.
He put his arms around her and drew her close. She made no resistance, but allowed herself to fall into his embrace.
"Marjorie!" he whispered.
She yielded both her hands to his grasp and felt them compressed within it.
"You were not hurt at my seeming indiscretion?"
"I told you in my letter that I was not."
"Then you do love me?"
She drew back a little as if to glance at him.
"You know that I do," was the soft, reassuring answer.
"Won't you let me hear you say it?" he pleaded.
Reaching out, she put both arms about him and offered her lips to his, whispering at the same time only what he was destined to hear.
Presently the old clock began to strike the hour of five.
CHAPTER VI
I
"Father! Father! Where are you? Arnold has betrayed! He has betrayed his country!"
Breathless, Marjorie rushed into the hallway, leaving the door ajar behind her. It was late in the afternoon of a September day. The air was soft and hazy, tempered with just the chill of evening that comes at this time of the year before sundown.
More than two months had passed, months crowded with happiness which had filled her life with fancy. Her engagement to Captain Meagher had been announced, quietly and simply; their marriage was to take place in the fall. Day after day sped by and hid themselves in the records of time until the event, anxiously awaited, yet equally dreaded, was but a bare month distant. It would be a quiet affair after all, with no ostentation or display; but that would in no wise prevent her from looking her prettiest.
And so on this September afternoon while she was visiting the shops for the purpose of discovering whatever tempting and choice bits of ware they might have to offer, she thought she heard the blast of a trumpet from the direction of the balcony of the old Governor's Mansion. Attracted by the sound, which recalled to her mind a former occasion when the news of the battle of Monmouth was brought to the city by courier and announced to the public, she quickened her steps in the direction of the venerable building. True, a man was addressing the people who had congregated beneath the balcony. Straining every faculty she caught the awful news.
Straightway she sped homewards, running as often as her panting breath would allow. She did not wait to open the door, but seemed to burst through it.
"What was that, child?" her father asked quickly as he met her in the dining-room.
"Arnold … Arnold …" she repeated, waiting to catch her breath.
"Has betrayed, you say?"
"West Point."
"My God! We are lost."
He threw his hands heavenwards and started across the floor.
"What is it, Marjorie?" asked the mother, who now stood in the passageway, a corner of her apron held in both hands, a look of wonder and suspicion full upon her.
"No, Father!" the girl replied, apparently heedless of her mother's presence, "West Point is saved. Arnold has gone."
"Let him go. But West Point is still ours? Thank God! He is with the British, I suppose?"
"So they say. The plot was discovered in the nick of time. His accomplice was captured and the papers found upon him."
"When did this happen?"
"Only a few days ago. The courier was dispatched at once to the members of Congress. The message was delivered today."
"And General Arnold tried to sell West Point to the British?" commented Mrs. Allison, who had listened as long as possible to the disconnected story. "A scoundrel of a man."
"Three Americans arrested a suspicious man in the neighborhood of Tarrytown. Upon searching him they discovered some papers in the handwriting of Arnold containing descriptions of the fortress. They took him for a spy."
"I thought as much," said Mrs. Allison. "Didn't I tell you that Arnold would do something like that? I knew it. I knew it."
"Thank God he is not one of us," was Mr. Allison's grave reply. "His act would only serve to fan into fury the dormant flames of Pope Day."
"This is an act of vengeance," Marjorie reflected. "He never forgot his court-martial, and evidently sought his country's ruin in revenge. Adversities he could contend with; humiliation he could not endure."
The little group presented a varied scene. The girl, young, tender, was plainly animated with a strong undercurrent of excitement which thrilled her entire frame, flushing her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes. Her tender years, her inexperience with the world, her guileless mind and frank open manner had not yet prepared her for the enormity of the crime which had of a sudden been flashed full upon her. For the moment realization had given way to wonder. She sensed only the magnitude of the tragedy without its atrocious and more insidious details. On the other hand there was the father, composed and imperturbable, to whom the disclosure of this scheme of the blackest treason was but another chapter added to the year of disasters which was just coming to a close. His more astute mind, schooled by long experience with the world and its artifices, had taught him to view the transit of events with a certain philosophy, a sort of pragmatic philosophy, with reference to the causes and the results of events and how they bore on the practical utility of all concerned; and finally the mother, who in her devout and pious way, saw only the Holy Will of God working in all things for His own praise and glory.
"And they found the dispatches in his own writing?" the father asked deliberately.
"In his stockings, beneath the soles of his feet."
Again there was silence.
"He is a prisoner?"
"Of course. He was arrested for a spy. They say he is an Adjutant in the British army. He was in full disguise."
"Hm!"
Mr. Allison set his lips.
"I think," continued Marjorie, "that it was the effect of a stroke of good fortune. He was taken by three men who were lying in wait for robbers. Otherwise he might have continued his journey in safety and the plot would have succeeded."
"Thank God and His Blessed Mother!" breathed Mrs. Allison as she clasped her hands together before her in an attitude of prayer.
"And Arnold?" methodically asked Mr. Allison.
"He escaped to the British lines. I do not know how, but it seems that he has departed. The one important item, which pleased and interested the people, was the capture of the spy and the frustration of the plot."
The father left the chair and began to pace the room, his hands behind him.
"It is a bad blow. Too bad! Too bad!" he repeated. "I do not like it, for it will destroy the courage and confidence of our people. Arnold was the idol of the army, and I fear that his defection will create a great change of heart."
"The army will be better off without him," said Mrs. Allison.
"I agree with you," was the reply. "But the people may decide in a different manner. There is reason for worry."
"What was the effect of Lee's attempted treason?" spoke up Marjorie. "The people loathe him, and he will die an outcast."
"There is no punishment too severe for Lee. He has been from the start nothing but a selfish adventurer. But the cases are not parallel. Lee was never popular with the army. Arnold, you must remember, was the most successful leader in the field and the officer most prized by the Commander-in-chief."
"Nevertheless he will sink as fast as he climbed, I think. The country must not tolerate a traitor."
"Must not! But will not the circumstance alter the case? I say that unless the proofs of Arnold's treason are irrefutable, the people will be slow to believe. I don't like it. I don't."
There was some logic in his argument which began to impress Marjorie. Arnold could exercise a tremendous amount of influence over the army. Whether the strings of loyalty which had united their hearts with his would be now snapped by his act of perfidy was the mooted question. As a matter of fact a spirit of mutiny already was beginning to make itself manifest. The soldiers of Pennsylvania who were encamped on the heights of Morristown marched out of camp the following January and set out for Philadelphia. They were rebuked by Washington, who sent a letter by General Wayne, whereupon they returned to their posts. Later in the same month another mutiny occurred among the New Jersey troops, but this, too, was quickly suppressed. Just how much responsibility for these uprisings might be traced to the treason of Arnold can not be estimated. There is no question, however, that his act was not wholly unproductive of its psychological effects.
"I feel so sorry for Peggy," Marjorie sighed.
"The young wife has a sore burden thrown upon her. A sorry day it was when she met him," was Mrs. Allison's comment.
"Strange, I never suspected Peggy for a moment," Marjorie said. "I had been raised with her and thought we knew each other. I am sorry, very sorry."
"We do not know how much she is concerned with this," announced Mr. Allison, "but her ambition knew no restraint or limitation. She has her peerage now."
"And her husband?"
"The grave of a traitor, the sole immortality of degraded ambition, religious prejudice, treason and infamy."
"God help him!" exclaimed Mrs. Allison.
II
In July, 1780, General Arnold had been placed in command of West Point; two months later he was safe on board the British sloop-of-war, Vulture. He had attempted to betray his country; he received in exchange six thousand pounds sterling, together with a brigadiership in the British Army.
From the time he left Philadelphia until the morning of his flight he had kept up a continual correspondence with John Anderson. Information was at length conveyed to him that Sir Henry Clinton was in possession of advices that the American Commander-in-chief contemplated an advance on New York by way of King's Bridge. Clinton's scheme would allow the army of General Washington to move upon the city, having collected all his magazines at the fortification at West Point, but at a given moment Arnold was expected to surrender the fort and garrison and compel the army of Washington to retire immediately or else suffer capture in the field.
Still Arnold felt that everything was not quite settled between Sir Henry and himself, and wrote accordingly, advising that a written guarantee be forwarded or delivered in person to him by an officer of Sir Henry's staff of his own mensuration. He was informed by way of reply that the necessary meeting might be arranged, and that the emissary would be the Adjutant-General of the British Army.
Accordingly the British sloop Vulture moved up the river as far as Stony Point, bearing the Adjutant-General. Arnold had fixed on the house of Joshua Smith as the place for the meeting. On the night of the twenty-first of September, he sent a boat to the Vulture which brought the emissary shore. In a thick grove of cedars, in the shroud of the blackest night, Arnold waited the return of the rowboat, its oars muffled with sheepskins, its passenger on board. The latter sprang lightly to the shore, his large blue watchcoat and high boots alone visible. As he climbed the bank and approached the grove, he threw back his cloak and revealed the full British uniform of a general officer.
"Anderson?" Arnold exclaimed. "You?"
"No! André, Major André," was the reply.
"Hm! I thought as much. I suspected you from the moment I met you in Philadelphia."
"Come. Let us finish. I must return before daybreak."
"Where is your disguise? I advised you to come in disguise."
He understood the piercing glance.
"I have come thus under General Clinton's orders," was the reply. "My safety lies in open uniform."
"Let it go at that. Here! I have with me the plans of West Point, together with a full inventory of its armament and stores and a roster of its garrison."
André took the papers and glanced at them as best he could by means of the lantern light.
"But I do not see here a written promise to surrender the fortress?"
"No! Nor, by Heaven, you shall not receive it," Arnold snapped. "I have given my word. That is enough. I have already placed myself in your hands by these plans and inventories made in my own handwriting. This is all… No more."
"General Washington visits here on Saturday?"
"Yes."
"The surrender must take place that night."
Arnold looked fiercely at him. This was one matter which seemed intolerable. To betray his country was treason; to betray his sole friend and benefactor was unknown to him by any name in the English language. He refused absolutely. André insisted, and the discussion became violent.
Neither became aware of the dawn which was about to break through the thicket of fir-trees which bounded the opposite bank of the Hudson. Still the details had not been arranged; the matter of Arnold's reward was still unsettled. There had been various promises of compensation, maintenance of military rank, a peerage or a viceroyalty in one of the colonies, but André was empowered to offer no more than compensation and military rank. With the dawning light, the boatmen became alarmed and refused to take André back to his ship, with the result that the two conspirators were obliged to pass the time until the next night in the house of Joshua Smith.
It so happened that the day brought to pass an unforeseen accident. Livingston, the Colonel of "Congress' Own," in command of the batteries on the opposite side of the river at Verplanck's Point, opened fire upon the Vulture, compelling her to drop down the river. It was necessary, therefore, for Major André to proceed by land down the opposite shore until he had met with his vessel, and so late at night he departed, his uniform and coat exchanged for a disguise, the six papers in Arnold's handwriting crammed between his stockings and feet.
It also happened, by a strange irony of fate, that a party of American soldiers had set out that very morning to intercept a band of robbers who had infested the roadways of this neighborhood, and who had rendered the highways impassable because of their depredations. Near Tarrytown, three of this party confronted a passing traveler, and leveling their muskets at him, ordered him to halt. They were obeyed on the instant, and because of the suspicious manner of the stranger, a complete search of him was made. The set of papers was found in their hiding place, and he was placed under arrest, and sent to North Castle. There the papers were examined, and instead of being sent to General Arnold himself, were forwarded to His Excellency, who was known to be lodged at West Point. At the same time a complementary letter was sent to General Arnold, informing him of what had taken place.
He was at breakfast when the news was brought him. The letter was crumbled in his hand as he hastily arose from the table and rushed to Peggy's room where he acquainted her of his fate. She screamed and fainted. He stooped to kiss his sleeping child; then rushing from the house was soon mounted and on his way to the place where he knew a barge had been anchored. Jumping aboard he ordered the oarsmen to take him to the Vulture, eighteen miles down the river. Next morning he was safe within the enemy's lines at New York.
III
The minute details of the attempted plot had not filtered into Philadelphia when a demonstration had begun in celebration of its frustration. Spontaneously and exuberantly the citizens of the city gathered in the public square and for several hours the joy-making continued with unabated energy and enthusiasm. Like a flash it seemed that the full realization of what this news had meant broke like a rushing tide upon their consciousness. The country had been threatened; but the danger had been averted.
In a few hours the streets were mad with hundreds of people singing and shouting and marching in unrestrained glee. Bulletins had been posted in the public square acquainting the people of the great facts, yet this did not begin to equal the amount of news which had been relayed from mouth to mouth and grew in detail and magnitude as it went. Chains, trays, broken iron were dragged in rattling bundles up and down the streets amid the laughs and cheers of the mass of humanity that had swarmed upon the roadways and sidewalks.