The Loyalist

CHAPTER II

I

It has been said with more truth than poetic fancy that the descent to Avernus is easy. It may be said, too, with equal assurance, that once General Arnold had committed himself to treachery and perfidy, his story becomes sickening, and in the judgment of his countrymen, devoid of no element of horror whether in its foul beginnings or in its wretched end. Once his mind had been definitely committed to the treacherous purpose, which loomed like a beacon light before him in the shaping of his destiny, his descent to the depths of degradation was rapid and fatal. The court-martial, together with its subsequent reprimand, had been accepted by him with the greatest animosity. From that hour his thirst for vengeance knew no restraint. One thing alone was necessary to his evil plans: he must secure an important command in the Continental Army.

Some time before he had asked for a change of post, or at least for a grant of land with permission to retire to private life, but this was under the inspiration of a motive of an entirely different nature. Now he had specifically asked for a command in the army, adding that his leg was quite healed and that he was fit physically for field duty. In entering this demand, he was actuated by a different motive – the motive of George Monk, the Duke of Albemarle, the Commander-in-chief of the forces of three kingdoms.

It is true that Washington had been devoted to him and remained faithful to him until the very end. To reprimand his favorite General was a painful duty. But it was performed with delicate and genuine tenderness. His Excellency had promised to do whatever lay within his power to enable his beloved General to recover the esteem of his fellow-men and he was glad to furnish him with every opportunity of effecting real and lasting service. He wrote him at once offering him leave of absence. Congress then ordered "That the sum of $25,000 be advanced to Major General Arnold on account of his pay." Finally a general order was issued by the Commander-in-chief himself appointing General Arnold Commander of the Right Wing of the American Army. The restoration so long awaited was at length achieved.

Arnold at once began to make preparations for his departure from the city. His privateering ventures had been cleared up, but with profits barely sufficient to meet his debts. Mount Pleasant, his sole possession, had already been settled on his wife. His tenure of office had been ended some time before, and whatever documents were destined for preservation had been put in order pending the arrival of his successor.

The plan for his defection had been evolved by him with elaborate detail. Never had the time been more opportune for the execution of a piece of business so nefarious. The country was without what could be called a stable form of government. It was deprived of any recognized means of exchange because of the total depreciation of the Continental currency. The British had obtained possession of the great city of New York and were threatening to overrun the country south of the Susquehanna. Newport was menaced and the entire British fleet was prepared to move up the Hudson where, at West Point, one poorly equipped garrison interposed between them and the forces of General Carleton, which were coming down from Canada. Washington was attempting to defend Philadelphia and watch Clinton closely from the heights of Morristown, while he threatened the position of the enemy in New York from West Point. In all the American Commander had no more than four thousand men, many of whom were raw recruits, mere boys, whose services had been procured for nine months for fifteen hundred dollars each. Georgia and the Carolinas were entirely reduced and it was only a question of time before the junction of the two armies might be effected.

Clinton was to attack West Point at once, in order to break down the one barrier which stood between his own army and the Canadian. Learning, however, of the rapid progress of events on the American side and more especially of the proposed defection of General Arnold, he suddenly changed his plan. He determined to attack Washington as soon as Arnold had been placed in command of the right wing of the main army. The latter was to suffer the attack to be made, but at the psychological moment he was to desert his Commander-in-chief in the field, and so effect the total destruction of the entire force.

This was the plan which was being turned over in his mind as he sat on this June afternoon in the great room of his mansion. He was again clad in his American uniform and looked the warrior of old in his blue and buff and gold. Care had marked his countenance with her heavy hand, however, and had left deep furrows across his forehead and down the sides of his mouth. His eyes, too, had lost their old-time flash and vivacity, his movements were more sluggish, his step more halting. The trials of the past year had left their visible tracings on him.

He sat and stroked his chin, and deliberated. In his hand he held a letter, a letter without date or address or salutation. It had been brought to him that day by messenger from the city. He understood it perfectly.

He looked at it again.

"Knyphausen is in New Jersey," it read, "but, understanding Arnold is about to command the American Army in the field, Clinton will attack Washington at once. The bearer may be trusted.

"Anderson."

II

"It is either Westminster Abbey for me or the gallows," he remarked to his wife that evening when they were quite alone.

"You have no apprehensions, I hope."

"There's many a slip – " he quoted.

"Come! Be an optimist. You have set your heart on it. So be brave."

"I have never lacked courage. At Saratoga while that scapegoat Gates sulked in his tent, I burst from the camp on my big brown horse and rode like a madman to the head of Larned's brigade, my old command, and we took the hill. Fear? I never knew what the word meant. Dashing back to the center, I galloped up and down before the line. We charged twice, and the enemy broke and fled. Then I turned to the left and ordered West and Livingston with Morgan's corps to make a general assault along the line. Here we took the key to the enemy's position and there was nothing for them to do but to retreat. At the same instant one bullet killed my good brown horse under me and another entered my leg. But the battle had been won."

"Never mind, my dear, the world yet lies before you."

"I won the war for them, damn 'em, in a single battle, and single-handed. Lord North knew it. The Rockingham Whigs, with Burke as their leader, knew it and were ready to concede independence, having been convinced that conciliation was no longer practicable or possible. Richmond urged the impossibility of final conquest, and even Gibbon agreed that the American colonies had been lost. I accomplished all that, I tell you, and I received – what? – a dead horse and a wounded leg."

There was a flash of the old-time general, but only a flash. It was evident that he was tiring easily. His old-time stamina had abandoned him.

"Why do you so excite yourself?" Peggy cautioned him. "The veins are bulging out on your forehead."

"When I think of it, it galls me. But I shall have my revenge," he gloated maliciously. "Clinton is going to attack Washington as soon as I have taken over my command. I shall outrival Albemarle yet."

"We may as well prepare to leave, then."

"There is no need of your immediate departure. You are not supposed to be acquainted with my designs. You must remain here. Later you can join me."

"But you are going at once?"

"Yes, I shall leave very soon now. Let me see." He paused to think. "It is over a week now since I was appointed. The appointment was to take effect immediately. I should report for duty at once."

"And I shall meet you – "

"In New York, very probably. It is too early yet to arrange for that. You will know where I am stationed and can remain here until I send for you."

While they were still engaged in conversation, a sound became very audible as of a horseman ascending the driveway. A summons at the door announced a courier from the Commander-in-chief to Major General Arnold. The latter presented himself and received a packet on which had been stamped the seal of official business. He took the document and withdrew.

It proved to be an order from His Excellency transferring the command of Major General Arnold on account of physical disability, which would not permit of service in the field, from the right wing of the American Army to Commander of the fortress at West Point. He was ordered to report for duty as soon as circumstances would permit and was again assured of His Excellency's highest respect and good wishes.

He handed the letter to Peggy without a word. He sat in deep meditation while she hastily scanned the contents.

"Tricked again," was her sole comment.

He did not answer.

"This looks suspicious. Do you think he knows?"

"No one knows."

"What will you do now? This upsets all your plans."

"I do not know. I shall accept, of course. Later, not now, we can decide."

"This means that I am going too."

"I suppose so. I shall have my headquarters there, and while they may not be as commodious as Mount Pleasant, still I would rather have you with me. We shall arrange for our departure accordingly."

"You will, of course, inform Anderson of the change?"

"He will hear of it. The news of the appointment will travel fast enough you may be sure. Very likely Knyphausen will now be recalled from New Jersey."

"So perishes your dream of a duchy!" she exclaimed.

"No. West Point is the most important post on the American side. It is the connecting link between New England and the rest of the colonies. It was the prize which Johnny Burgoyne was prevented from obtaining by me. It commands the Hudson River and opens the way to upper New York and Canada. It is the most strategic position in America, stored with immense quantities of ammunition and believed to be impregnable. Without doubt it is the most critical point in the American line."

"Bah! You need an army. Albemarle had an army. Marlborough had an army. Of what use is a fortress with a large force still in the field? It's the army that counts, I tell you. Territory, forts, cities mean nothing. It's the size of the army that wins the war."

"I know it, but what can I do?"

He conceded the point.

"Insist on your former post," she advised.

He thought awhile and began to whistle softly to himself as he tapped his finger tips one against the other.

"Listen," she continued. "There is some reason for this transfer at the eleventh hour. Are you dense enough not to see it? Some one has reached Washington's ear and whispered a secret. Else that order would never have been written."

"Washington believes only what is true. Always has he trusted and defended me from the vilifications of my enemies, knowing that these reports only emanated from jealous and unscrupulous hearts. My leg has caused this change of command; I know it."

She looked at him in scorn. She could not believe he could be so simple.

"Your leg! What has your leg to do with it? Once you are astride your horse you are safe. And don't you think for one minute that Clinton is a fool. He does not want you. I dare say if the truth were known, he has no respect for you either. It is your command which is of value to him, and the more authority you can master, the more valuable you become. Then you can dictate your own terms instead of bargaining them away."

"It would realize nothing to attempt a protest. A soldier asks no questions. Whatever I may be, I am still a soldier."

"As you will."

She shrugged her shoulders, and folded her arms.

"West Point it is," she observed, "but General Clinton may reconsider his proposition. I would not be too sure."

"I am sure he will be satisfied with West Point. With that post he might easily end the war. Anderson will write me soon again. I tell you I can dictate to them now. You shall have your peerage after all."

"I am not so sure."

"Have it your own way. I know what I am about and I know where I stand. At first it was a question only of my personal desertion. The betrayal of an army was a later development. But I could not become a deserter on a small scale. I have been accustomed all my life to playing signal rôles. If I am to sell myself at all, it shall be at the highest price together with the greatest prize. I have only one regret, and that is that I am obliged to take advantage of the confidence and respect of Washington to render this at all possible."

"Don't let your heart become softened by tender condolences at this stage. Your mind has been set; don't swerve."

He looked at her and wondered how she could remain so imperturbable. Ordinarily she burned with compassion at the sight of misery and affliction. He could not understand for the life of him, how stoically she maintained her composure throughout this ordeal. Plainly her heart was set on one ambition. She would be a duchess.

But she did not know that he had maintained a continual correspondence with Sir Henry Clinton, or that West Point had long since been decided upon, as a possible contingency. Much she did know, but most of the details had been concealed from her. Not that he did not trust her, but he wished her to be no party to his nefarious work.

And so he was not surprised that she expressed a genuine disappointment over his change of command. In fact he had been prepared for a more manifest display of disapproval. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was at length to accompany him which caused her to be more benign in her appreciation of the transfer. For he knew that she detested the city and longed for the day when she might be far removed from it forever.

"You will, of course, make ready to leave Mount Pleasant?" he asked of her.

"Assuredly. I shall acquaint mother and father with the prospect this evening. They do not want me to leave. But I am determined."

"They should be here. It is not early."

"The ride is long. They will come."

III

The last night spent by the Arnolds and the Shippen family at Mount Pleasant was a happy one. The entire family was in attendance and the Arnold silver was lavishly displayed for the occasion. American viands cooked and served in the prevailing American fashion were offered at table – hearty, simple food in great plenty washed down by quantities of Madeira and sherry and other imported beverages.

Toasts and healths were freely drunk. After the more customary ones to the "Success of the War," to the "Success of General Washington," to the "Nation" there came the usual healths to the host and the hostess, and more especially to the "Appointment of General Arnold." The ceremonies were interspersed with serious and animated conversation on the political situation and the chances of the army in the field. Throughout the entire meal a marked simplicity, a purity of manner, and frank cordiality was manifest, all indicative of the charming and unaffected homelife of the Americans.

"Miss Franks would have been pleased to be with us," announced the General as the company awaited another service.

"Could you believe it, General," said Mrs. Shippen, "not once have we heard from that girl since she moved to New York," and she set her lips firmly. "That is so unlike her; I cannot understand it."

"But you know, Mother," explained Peggy, "that the mail cannot be depended upon."

"I know, my dear, but I think that she could send a line, if it were only a line, by messenger if she thought enough of us. You know it was at our house that she met the friends with whom she is now engaged."

"Our mail system is deplorable," Mr. Shippen remarked. "Only yesterday I received a letter which apparently had been sent months ago."

"I can understand that very readily," Arnold rejoined. "Often letters are entrusted to travelers. At times these men deposit a letter at some inn at the cross-roads for the next traveler who is bound for the same place as the epistle. It often happens that such a missive remains for months upon a mantelpiece awaiting a favorable opportunity. Then again sheer neglect may be responsible for an unusual delay. I myself have experience of that."

This explanation seemed to satisfy Mrs. Shippen for she dropped the subject immediately. The mode of travel then occasioned a critical comment from her until she finally asked when they intended to leave for West Point.

"Very likely I shall leave before the week is out," replied Arnold. "It is most important that I assume command at once. We shall prepare to depart tomorrow."

They talked far into the night, the men smoking while the ladies retired to the great drawing-room. Peggy played and sang, and took her mother aside at intervals for conference upon little matters which required advice. At a late hour, after taking affectionate leaves, the families parted. Peggy and her husband now abandoned themselves to their destiny – to glorious triumph or to utter ruin.

They closed the door upon their kinsfolk and faced the situation. Westminster Abbey or the gallows loomed before them.

IV

Late that same evening, alone before his desk, General Arnold penned the following ambiguous letter to John Anderson. West Point it was. That was settled. Still it was necessary that General Clinton be appraised immediately of the change of command together with some inkling of the military value of the new post. The business was such that he dared not employ his true name; and so he assumed a title, referring to himself throughout the note in the third person. The meaning of the message, he knew, would be readily interpreted.

Sir: – On the 24th of last month I received a note from you without date, in answer to mine; also a letter from your house in answer to mine, with a note from B. of the 30th of June, with an extract of a letter from Mr. J. Osborn. I have paid particular attention to the contents of the several letters. Had they arrived earlier, you should have had my answer sooner. A variety of circumstances has prevented my writing you before. I expect to do it very fully in a few days, and to procure you an interview with Mr. M – e, when you will be able to settle your commercial plan, I hope, in a manner agreeable to all parties. Mr. M – e assures me that he is still of opinion that his first proposal is by no means unreasonable, and makes no doubt, that, when he has a conference with you, you will close with it. He expects when you meet you will be fully authorized from your House and that the risks and profits of the co-partnership may be fully and clearly understood.

A speculation might at this time be easily made to some advantage with ready money, but there is not the quantity of goods at market which your partner seems to suppose, and the number of speculators below, I think, will be against your making an immediate purchase. I apprehend goods will be in greater plenty and much cheaper in the course of the season; both dry and wet are much wanted and in demand at this juncture. Some quantities are expected in this part of the country soon.

Mr. M – e flatters himself that in the course of ten days he will have the pleasure of seeing you. He requests me to advise you that he has ordered a draught on you in favor of our mutual friend, S – y for 1300, which you will charge on account of the tobacco.

I am, in behalf of Mr. M – e and Co., Sir,

Your most obedient, humble servant,

Gustavus.

To Mr. John Anderson, Merchant,

New York.

CHAPTER III

I

In the meantime, Marjorie was tossing restlessly, nervously in her bed, enduring hours of disconsolate remorse and lonely desolation. She could not sleep. She cried her eyes wet with tears, and wiped them dry again with her handkerchief; then stared up at the black ceiling, or gazed out through the small window at the faint glow in the world beyond. Her girlish heart, lay heavy within her, distended almost to the breaking-point with grief, a grief which had sent her early to bed to seek solitude and consolation; that solitude which alone brings relief to a heart freighted with sorrow and woe. Now that Stephen had gone, she had time to think over the meaning of it all, and she began to experience the renewed agony of those terrible moments by the water's edge. It was so awful, so frightful that her tender frame seemed to yield beneath its load, she simply had to give way to the tears.

She could not sleep, and she knew it. Scrambling out of her bed and wrapping a mantle about her, she sat beside the window and peered into the night. There was not a breeze to break the solemn silence, not a sound to distract her from her reverie. Two black and uncanny pine trees stood like armed guards near by the corner of the house to challenge the interloper from disturbing her meditation. Overhead the stars blinked and glistened through the treetops in their lace of foliage and delicate branches, and resembled for all the world an hundred diamonds set in a band of filigree work. The moon had not yet risen, and all the world seemed to be in abject despair, bristling in horrid shapes and sights, – a fit dwelling-place for Marjorie and her grief-stricken heart.

Stephen had gone away that afternoon, perhaps never to return. For this she could not reproach him, for she allowed that she had given him every reason to feel offended. But she had hurt him, and very likely hurt him to the quick. She knew his sensitive nature and she feared the consequence. It was that thought more than the real contrition over her fault which had overwhelmed her. Her return for his many acts of kindness had been one of austere repulsion.

Now she felt acutely the bitterness of it all. That she had afforded him some encouragement, that she had coöperated in the first place to make the setting of it all quite perfect, that she had lent him her assurance that she was amicably disposed towards him, and that her action in regard to the miniature, while apparently innocent enough, was fraught with significance for Stephen in view of his intimate connections with the events of the past two years, that after all perhaps she had been entirely unreasonable throughout it all; these were the thoughts which excited, both in the truth of their reality and in the knowledge of the hopes they had alternately raised and blasted in Stephen, the bitter sorrow which was the cause of her mingled pain and regret.

What would he think of her now? What could he think? Plainly he must consider her a cold, austere being, devoid of all feeling and appreciation. He had given her the best that was in him and had made bold enough to appraise her of it. Sincerity was manifest in his every gesture and word, and yet she had made him feel as if his protestations had been repugnant to her. She knew his nature, his extreme diffidence in matters of this kind, his power of resolution, and she feared that once having tried and failed, he was lost to her forever.

And yet she knew that she grieved not for herself but for him. Her stern refusal had only caused him the greater pain. Stephen would, perhaps, misunderstand as he had misunderstood her in the past and it was the thought of the vast discomfiture she had occasioned in him that stung her with sorrow.

Her warm, generous heart now chided her for her apparent indifference. There was no other name for it. What could he deduce from her behavior except that she was a cold, ungrateful, irresolute creature who did not know her own mind or the promptings of her own heart! She had flung him from her smarting and wounded, after he had summoned his entire strength to whisper to her what she would have given worlds to hear, but which had only confounded and startled her by its suddenness.

And yet she loved him. She knew it and kept repeating it over and over again to her own self. No one before or since had struck so responsive a chord from her heart strings. There had been no other ideal to which she had shaped the pictures of her mind. Stephen was her paragon of excellence and to him the faculties of her soul had turned of their own mood and temper unknown even to the workings of her intellectual consciousness, like the natural inclination of the heliotrope before the rays of the rising sun.

Laying her head in the crook of her elbow she sobbed bitterly.

The thought that he was gone from her life brought inconsolable remorse. She knew him, knew the intimate structure of his soul, and she knew that a deep repentance would seize hold of him on account of his rash presumption. He would be true to his word: he would not breathe the subject again. Nay, more, he would ever permit her to disappear from his life as gradually as she had entered into it. This was unendurable but the consciousness that she had caused this bitter rupture was beyond all endurance still.

She lifted her head and stared into the black depths of the night. All was still except the shrill pipings of the frogs as they sounded their dissonant notes to one another in the far-off Schuylkill meadows. They, too, were filled with thoughts of love, Marjorie thought, which they had made bold enough to publish in their own discordant way, and they seemed to take eminent delight in having the whole world aware of the fact that it, too, might rejoice with them.

If it were true that she loved him, it were equally true that he ought to be apprised of it. There could be no love without a mutual understanding, for to love alone would be admiration and entirely one-sided. Let her unfold her soul to him in order that he might take joy for his portion ere his ardor had cooled into mere civility. For if it were licit to love, it were more licit to express it and this expression should be reciprocal.

She would tell him before it were too late. Her silence at the very moment when she should have acted was unfortunate. Perhaps his affection had been killed by the blow and her protestations would be falling upon barren soil. No matter! She would write and unfold her heart to him, and tell him that she really and truly cared for him more than any one else in the world, and she would beg him to return that she might whisper in his ear those very words she had been softly repeating to herself. Full repentance would take possession of her soul, and her heart would rush unrestrained to the object of its love, telling him that she was with him always, thinking of him, praying for him, and waiting for him. She would write him at once.

II

But she did not mail the letter. Hidden carefully in her room, it lay all the next day. Unworthy post-chaise to bear so precious a manuscript! She would journey herself to its destination to safeguard it, were it at all possible. A thousand and one misgivings haunted her concerning the safety of its arrival, – Stephen might have been transferred to some distant point, the letter itself might possibly fall into awkward hands, it might lay for months in the post bag, or fall into a dark corner of some obscure tavern, the roads were infested with robbers, – horrible thoughts, too horri