Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  After a silence the Major’s emotion dimmed his twinkling eyes; he dragged a red bandanna handkerchief from his coat-tails and blew his nose violently.

  “All flesh is grass — eh, Captain? And some of it devilish poor grass at that, eh? Well, well; we can’t make an army in a day. But, by gad, sir, we’ve done uncommonly well. You’ve heard of — but no, you haven’t, either. Here’s news for you, friend, since you’ve been in the woods. On the sixth, while you fellows were shooting down some three hundred and fifty of the Mohawks, Royal Greens, and renegades, that sly old wolverine, Marinus Willett, slipped out of the fort, fell on Sir John’s camp, and took twenty-one wagon-loads of provisions, blankets, ammunition, and tools; also five British standards and every bit of personal baggage belonging to Sir John Johnson, including his private papers, maps, memoranda, and all orders and instructions for the completed plans of campaign.... Wait, if you please, sir. That is not all.

  “On the sixteenth, old John Stark fell upon Baum’s and Breyman’s Hessians at Bennington, killed and wounded over two hundred, captured seven hundred; took a thousand stand of arms, a thousand fine dragoon sabres, and four excellent field-cannon with limbers, harness, and caissons.... And lost fourteen killed!”

  Speechless at the good news, I could only lean across the smudge and shake hands with him while he chuckled and slapped his knee, growing ruddier in the face every moment.

  “Where are the red-coats now?” he cried. “Look at ‘em! Burgoyne, scared witless, badgered, dogged from pillar to post, his army on the defensive from Still water down to Half-moon; St. Leger, destitute of his camp baggage, caught in his own wolf-pit, flinging a dozen harmless bombs at Stanwix, and frightened half to death at every rumor from Albany; McDonald chased out of the county; Mann captured, and Sir Henry Clinton dawdling in New York and bothering his head over Washington while Burgoyne, in a devil of a plight, sits yonder yelling for help!

  “Where’s the great invasion, Ormond? Where’s the grand advance on the centre? Where’s the gigantic triple blow at the heart of this scurvy rebellion? I don’t know; do you?”

  I shook my head, smilingly; he beamed upon me; we had a swallow of brandy together, and I lay back, deathly tired, to wait for Arnold and my despatches.

  “That’s right,” commented the genial Major, “go to sleep while you can; the General won’t take it amiss — eh? What? Oh, don’t mind me, my son. Old codgers like me can get along without such luxuries as sleep. It’s the young lads who require sleep. Eh? Yes, sir; I’m serious. Wait till you see sixty year! Then you’ll understand.... So I’ll just sit here, ... and smoke, ... and talk away in a buzz-song, ... and that will fix—”

  I looked up with a start; the Major had disappeared. In my eyes a lantern was shining steadily. Then a shadow moved, and I turned and stumbled to my feet, as a cloaked figure stepped into the shelter and stood before me, peering into my eyes.

  “I’m Arnold; how d’ye do,” came a quick, nervous voice from the depths of the military cloak. “I’ve a moment to stay here; we march in ten minutes. Is Herkimer dead?”

  I described his death in a few words.

  “Bad, bad as hell!” he muttered, fingering his sword-hilt and staring off into the darkness. “What’s the situation above us? Gansevoort’s holding out, isn’t he? I sent him a note to-night. Of course he’s holding out; isn’t he?”

  I made a short report of the situation as I knew it; the General looked straight into my eyes as though he were not listening.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, impatiently. “I know how to deal with St. Leger and Sir John — I wrote Gansevoort that I understood how to deal with them. He has only to sit tight; I’ll manage the rest.”

  His dark, lean, eager visage caught the lantern light as he turned to scan the moonlit sky. “Ten minutes,” he muttered; “we should strike German Flatts by sundown to-morrow if our supplies come up.” And, aloud, with an abrupt and vigorous gesture, “McCraw’s band are scalping the settlers, they say?”

  I told him what I had seen. He nodded, then his virile face changed and he gave me a sulky look.

  “Captain Ormond,” he said, “folk say that I brood over the wrongs done me by Congress. It’s a lie; I don’t care a damn about Congress — but let it pass. What I wish to say is this: On the second of August the best general in these United States except George Washington was deprived of his command and superseded by a — a — thing named Gates.... I speak of General Philip Schuyler, my friend, and now my fellow-victim.”

  Shocked and angry at the news of such injustice to the man whose splendid energy had already paralyzed the British invasion of New York, I stiffened up, rigid and speechless.

  “Ho!” cried Arnold, with a disagreeable laugh. “It mads you, does it? Well, sir, think of me who have lived to see five men promoted over my head — and I left in the anterooms of Congress to eat my heart out! But let that pass, too. By the eternal God, I’ll show them what stuff is in me! Let it pass, Ormond, let it pass.”

  He began to pace the ground, gnawing his thick lower lip, and if ever the infernal fire darted from human eyes, I saw its baleful flicker then.

  With a heave of his chest and a scowl, he controlled his voice, stopping in his nervous walk to face me again.

  “Ormond, you’ve gone up higher — the commission is here.” He pulled a packet of papers from his breast-pocket and thrust them at me. “Schuyler did it. He thinks well of you, sir. On the first of August he learned that he was to be superseded. He told Clinton that you deserved a commission for what you did at that Iroquois council-fire. Here it is; you’re to raise a regiment of rangers for local defence of the Mohawk district.... I congratulate you, Colonel Ormond.”

  He offered his bony, nervous hand; I clasped it, dazed and speechless.

  “Remember me,” he said, eagerly. “Let me count on your voice at the next council of war. You will not regret it, Colonel. Even if you go higher — even if you rise over my luckless head, you will not regret the friendship of Benedict Arnold. For, by Heaven, sir, I have it in me to lead men; and they shall not keep me down, and they shall not fetter me — no, not even this beribboned lap-dog Gates!... Stand my friend, Ormond. I need every friend I have. And I promise you the world shall hear of me one day!”

  I shall never forget his worn and shadowy face, the long nose, the strong, selfish chin, the devouring flame burning his soul out through his eyes.

  “Luck be with you!” he said, abruptly, extending his hand. Once more that bony, fervid clasp, and he was gone.

  A moment later the ground vibrated; a dark, massed column of troops appeared in the moonlight, marching swiftly without drum-tap or spoken command; the dim forms of mounted officers rode past like shadows against the stars; vague shapes of wagons creaked after, rolling on muffled wheels; more troops followed quickly; then the shadowy pageant ended; and there was nothing before me but the moon in the sky above a world of ghostly wilderness.

  One camp lantern had been left for my use; by its nickering light I untied the documents left me by Arnold; and, sorting the papers, chose first my orders, reading the formal notice of my transfer from Morgan’s Rifles to the militia; then the order detailing me to the Mohawk district, with headquarters at Varick Manor; and, finally, my commission on parchment, signed by Governor Clinton and by Philip Schuyler, Major-General Commanding the Department of the North.

  It was, perhaps, the last official act as chief of department of this generous man.

  The next letter was in his own handwriting. I broke the heavy seal and read:

  “ALBANY,

  “August 10, 1777. “Colonel George Ormond”

  “MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND, — As you have perhaps heard rumors that General Gates has superseded me in command of the army now operating against General Burgoyne, I desire to confirm these rumors for your benefit.

  “My orders I now take from General Gates, without the slightest rancor, I assure you, or the least unworthy sentiment of envy or chagrin. Congress, in its wi
sdom, has ordered it; and I count him unspeakably base who shall serve his country the less ardently because of a petty and personal disappointment in ambitions unfulfilled.

  “I remain loyal in heart and deed to my country and to General Gates, who may command my poor talents in any manner he sees fitting.

  “I say this to you because I am an older man, and I know something of younger men, and I have liked you from the first. I say it particularly because, now that you also owe duty and instant obedience to General Gates, I do not wish your obedience retarded, or your sense of duty confused by any mistaken ideas of friendship to me or loyalty to my person.

  “In these times the individual is nothing, the cause everything. Cliques, cabals, political conspiracies are foolish, dangerous — nay, wickedly criminal. For, sir, as long as the world endures, a house divided against itself must fall.

  “Which leads me with greatest pleasure to mention your wise and successful diplomacy in the matter of the Long House. That house you have most cleverly divided against itself; and it must fall — it is tottering now, shaken to its foundations of centuries. Also, I have the pleasure to refer to your capture of the man Beacraft and his papers, disclosing a diabolical plan of murder. The man has been condemned by a court on the evidence as it stood, and he is now awaiting execution.

  “I have before me Colonel Visscher’s partial report of the battle of Oriskany. Your name is not mentioned in this report, but, knowing you as I believe I do, I am satisfied that you did your full duty in that terrible affair; although, in your report to me by Oneida runner, you record the action as though you yourself were a mere spectator.

  “I note with pleasure your mention of the gallantry of your riflemen, Mount, Murphy, and Elerson, and have reported it to their company captain, Mr. Long, who will, in turn, bring it to the attention of Colonel Morgan.

  “I also note that you have not availed yourself of the war-services of the Oneidas, for which I beg to thank you personally.

  “I recall with genuine pleasure my visit to your uncle, Sir Lupus Varick, where I had the fortune to make your acquaintance and, I trust, your friendship.

  “Mrs. Schuyler joins me in kindest remembrance to you, and to Sir Lupus, whose courtesy and hospitality I have to-day had the honor to acknowledge by letter. Through your good office we take advantage of this opportunity to send our love to Miss Dorothy, who has won our hearts.

  “I am, sir, your most obedient,

  PHILIP SCHUYLER,

  Major-General.

  “P.S. — I had almost forgotten to congratulate you on your merited advancement in military rank, for which you may thank our wise and good Governor Clinton.

  “I shall not pretend to offer you unasked advice upon this happy occasion, though it is an old man’s temptation to do so, perhaps even his prerogative. However, there are younger colonels than you, sir, in our service — ay, and brigadiers, too. So be humble, and lay not this honor with too much unction to your heart. Your friend,

  “PH. SCHUYLER.”

  I sat for a while staring at this good man’s letter, then opened the next missive.

  “HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF THE NORTH,

  STILLWATER,

  August 12, 1777.

  “Colonel George Ormond, on Scout:

  “SIR, — By order of Major-General Gates, commanding this department, you will, upon reception of this order, instantly repair to Varick Manor and report your arrival by express or a native runner to be trusted, preferably an Oneida. At nine o’clock, the day following your arrival at Varicks’, you will leave on your journey to Stillwater, where you will report to General Gates for further orders.

  “Your small experience in military matters of organization renders it most necessary that you should be aided in the formation of your regiment of rangers by a detail from Colonel Morgan’s Rifles, as well as by the advice of General Gates.

  “You will, therefore, retain the riflemen composing your scout, but attempt nothing towards enlisting your companies until you receive your instructions personally and in full from headquarters.

  “I am, sir,

  “Your very obedient servant,

  “WILKINSON, Adjutant-General.

  “For Major-General Gates, commanding.”

  “Why, in Heaven’s name, should I lose time by journeying to headquarters?” I said, aloud, looking up from my letter. Ah! There was the difference between Schuyler, who picked his man, told him what he desired, and left him to fulfil it, and Gates, who chose a man, flung his inexperience into his face, and bade him twirl his thumbs and sit idle until headquarters could teach him how to do what he had been chosen to do, presumably upon his ability to do it!

  A helpless sensation of paralysis came over me — a restless, confused impression of my possible untrustworthiness, and of unfriendliness to me in high quarters, even of a thinly veiled hostility to me.

  What a letter! That was not the way to get work out of a subordinate — this patronizing of possible energy and enthusiasm, this cold dampening of ardor, as though ardor in itself were a reproach and zeal required reproof.

  Wondering why they had chosen me if they thought me a blundering and, perhaps, mischievous zealot, I picked up a parcel, undirected, and broke the string.

  Out of it fell two letters. The writing was my cousin Dorothy’s; and, trembling all over in spite of myself, I broke the seal of the first. It was undated:

  “DEAREST, — Your letter from Oriskany is before me. I am here in your room, the door locked, alone with your letter, overwhelmed with love and tenderness and fear for you.

  “They tell me that you have been made colonel of a regiment, and the honor thrills yet saddens me — all those colonels killed at Oriskany! Is it a post of special danger, dear?

  “Oh, my brave, splendid lover I with your quiet, steady eyes and your bright hair — you angel on earth who found me a child and left me an adoring woman — can it be that in this world there is such a thing as death for you? And could the world last without you?

  “Ah me! dreary me! the love that is in me! Who could believe it? Who could doubt that it is divine and not inspired by hell as I once feared; it is so beautiful, so hopelessly beautiful, like that faint thrill of splendor that passes shadowing a dream where, for an instant, we think to see a tiny corner of heaven sparkling out through a million fathoms of terrific night.... Did you ever dream that?

  “We have been gay here. Young Mr. Van Rensselaer came from Albany to heal the breach with father. We danced and had games. He is a good young man, this patroon and patriot. Listen, dear: he permitted all his tenants to join the army of Gates, cancelled their rent-rolls during their service, and promised to provide for their families. It will take a fortune, but his deeds are better than his words.

  “Only one thing, dear, that troubled me. I tell it to you, as I tell you everything, knowing you to be kind and pitiful. It is this: he asked father’s permission to address me, not knowing I was affianced. How sad is hopeless love!

  “There was a battle at Bennington, where General Stark’s men whipped the Brunswick troops and took equipments for a thousand cavalry, so that now you should see our Legion of Horse, so gay in their buff-and-blue and their new helmets and great, spurred jack-boots and bright sabres!

  “Ruyven was stark mad to join them; and what do you think? Sir Lupus consented, and General Schuyler lent his kind offices, and to-day, if you please, my brother is strutting about the yard in the uniform of a Cornet of Legion cavalry!

  “To-night the squadron leaves to chase some of McDonald’s renegades out of Broadalbin. You remember Captain McDonald, the Glencoe brawler? — it’s the same one, and he’s done murder, they say, on the folk of Tribes Hill. I am thankful that Ruyven is in Sir George Covert’s squadron.

  “And, dear, what do you think? Walter Butler was taken, three days since, by some of Sir George Covert’s riders, while visiting his mother and sister at a farm-house near Johnstown. He was taken within our lines, it seems, and in ci
vilian’s clothes; and the next day he was tried by a drum-court at Albany and condemned to death as a spy. Is it not awful? He has not yet been sentenced. It touches us, too, that an Ormond-Butler should die on the gallows. What horrors men commit! What horrors! God pity his mother!

  “I am writing at a breathless pace, quill flying, sand scattered by the handful — for my feverish gossip seems to help me to endure.

  “Time, space, distance vanish while I write; and I am with you ... until my letter ends.

  “Then, quick! my budget of gossip! I said that we had been gay, and that is true, for what with the Legion camping in our quarters and General Arnold’s men here for two days, and Schuyler’s and Gates’s officers coming and going and always remaining to dine, at least, we have danced and picnicked and played music and been frightened when McDonald’s men came too near. And oh, the terrible pall that fell on our company when news came of poor Janet McCrea’s murder by Indians — you did not know her, but I did, and loved her dearly in school — the dear little thing! But Burgoyne’s Indians murdered her, and a fiend called The Wyandot Panther scalped her, they say — all that beautiful, silky, long hair! But Burgoyne did not hang him, Heaven only knows why, for they said Burgoyne was a gentleman and an honorable soldier!

  “Then our company forgot the tragedy, and we danced — think of it, dear! How quickly things are forgotten! Then came the terrible news from Oriskany! I was nearly dead with fright until your letter arrived.... So, God help us I we danced and laughed and chattered once more when Arnold’s troops came.

  “I did not quite share the admiration of the women for General Arnold. He is not finely fibred; not a man who appeals to me; though I am very sorry for the slight that the Congress has put upon him; and it is easy to see that he is a brave and dashing officer, even if a trifle coarse in the grain and inclined to be a little showy. What I liked best about him was his deep admiration and friendship for our dear General Schuyler, which does him honor, and doubly so because General Schuyler has few friends in politics, and Arnold was perfectly fearless in showing his respect and friendship for a man who could do him no favors.