Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “It is strange,” she said, “how you turn grave and how a hush comes, a little pause of reverence, whenever you name — his Excellency. Do all so stand in awe of him?”

  “None names him lightly, Elsin.”

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  “Never, child.”

  “And yet you approach even his name in hushed respect.”

  “Yes, even his name. I should like to see him,” I continued wistfully, “to hear him speak once, to meet his calm eye. But I never shall. My service is of such a nature that it is inexpedient for him to receive me openly. So I never shall see him — save, perhaps, when the long war ends — God knows — —”

  She dropped her hand on mine and leaned lightly back against my shoulder.

  “You must not fret,” she murmured. “Remember that staff-officer said he praised you.”

  “I do, I do remember!” I repeated gratefully. “It was a reward I never dared expect — never dreamed of. His Excellency has been kind to me, indeed.”

  It was now past four o’clock in the afternoon, and Elsin, who had noted the wares in the shop-windows, desired to price the few simple goods offered for sale; so we went out into the dusty village street to see what was to be seen, but the few shops we entered were full of soldiers and not overclean, and the wares offered for sale were not attractive. I remember she bought points and some stuff for stocks, and needles and a reel of thread, and when she offered a gold piece everybody looked at us, and the shopkeeper called her “My lady” and me “My lord,” and gave us in change for the gold piece a great handful of paper money.

  We emerged from the shop amazed, and doubtful of the paper stuff, and walked up the street and out into the country, pausing under a great maple-tree to sort this new Continental currency, of which we had enough to stuff a pillow.

  Scrip by scrip I examined the legal tender of my country, Elsin, her chin on my shoulder, scrutinizing the printed slips of yellow, brown, and red in growing wonder. One slip bore three arrows on it, under which was printed:

  Fifty Dollars.

  Printed by H. A. L. L. and S. E. L.

  1778.

  Upon the other side was a pyramid in a double circle, surmounted by the legend:

  Perennis.

  And it was further decorated with the following:

  “No. 16780 Fifty Dollars. This Bill entitles the Bearer to receive Fifty Spanish milled dollars or the value thereof in Gold or Silver, according to the Resolution passed by Congress at Philadelphia, September 26th, 1788.

  “J. Watkins; I. K.”

  And we had several dozen of these of equal or less denomination.

  “Goodness,” exclaimed Elsin, “was my guinea worth all these dollars? And do you suppose that we could buy anything with these paper bills?”

  “Certainly,” I said, loyal to my country’s currency; “they’re just as good as silver shillings — if you only have enough of them.”

  “But what use will they be to me in Canada?”

  That was true enough. I immediately pocketed the mass of paper and tendered her a guinea in exchange, but she refused it, and we had a pretty quarrel there under the maple-tree.

  “Carus,” she said at last, “let us keep them, anyhow, and never, never spend them. Some day we may care to remember this July afternoon, and how you and I went a-shopping as sober as a wedded pair in Hanover Square.”

  There was a certain note of seriousness in her voice that sobered me, too. I drew her arm through mine, and we strolled out into the sunshine and northward along the little river, where in shallow brown pools scores of minnows stemmed the current, and we saw the slim trout lying in schools under the bush’s shadows, and the great silver and blue kingfishers winging up and down like flashes of azure fire.

  A mile out a sentinel stopped us, inquiring our business, and as we had none we turned back, for it mattered little to us where we sauntered. Farmers were cutting hay in the river-meadows, under the direction of a mounted sergeant of dragoons; herds of cattle and sheep grazed among the hills, shepherded by soldiers. Every now and again dragoons rode past us, convoying endless lines of wagons piled up with barrels, crates, sacks of meal, and sometimes with bolts of coarse cloth.

  To escape the dust raised by so many hoofs and wheels we took to the fields and found a shady place on a hill which overlooked the country. Then for the first time I realized the nearness of the army, for everywhere in the distance white tents gleamed against the green, and bright flags were flying from hillocks, and on a level plain that stretched away toward the Hudson I saw long dark lines moving, or halted motionless, with the glimmer of steel playing through the sunshine; and I, for the first time, beheld a brigade of our army at exercise.

  We were too far away to see, yet it was a sight to stir one who had endured that prison city so long, never seeing a Continental soldier except as a prisoner marched through the streets to the jails or the hulks in the river. But there they were — those men of White Plains, of Princeton, of Camden, and of the Wilderness — the men of Long Island, and Germantown, and Stony Point! — there they were, wheeling by the right flank, wheeling by the left, marching and countermarching, drilling away, busy as bees in the July sun.

  “Ah, Elsin,” I said, “when they storm New York the man who misses that splendid climax will miss the best of his life — and never forget that he has missed it as long as he lives to mask his vain regret!”

  “Why is it that you are not content?” she asked. “For four years you have moved in the shadow of destruction.”

  “But I have never fought in battle,” I said; “never fired a single shot in earnest, never heard the field-horn of the light infantry nor the cavalry-trumpet above the fusillade, never heard the officers shouting, the mad gallop of artillery, the yelling onset — why, I know nothing of the pleasures of strife, only the smooth deceit and bland hypocrisy, only the eavesdropping and the ignoble pretense! At times I can scarcely breathe in my desire to wash my honor in the rifle flames — to be hurled pell-mell among the heaving, straining mêlée, thrusting, stabbing, cutting my fill, till I can no longer hear or see. Four years, Elsin! think of it — think of being chained in the midst of this magnificent activity for four years! And now, when I beg a billet among the dragoons, they tell me I am fashioned for diplomacy, not for war, and hint of my usefulness on the frontier!”

  “What frontier?” she asked quickly.

  “Tryon County, I suppose.”

  “Where that dreadful work never ceases?”

  “Hatchet and scalping-knife are ever busy there,” I said grimly. “Who knows? I may yet have my fill and to spare!”

  She sat silent for so long that I presently turned from the distant martial spectacle to look at her inquiringly. She smiled, drawing a long breath, and shaking her head.

  “I never seem to understand you, Carus,” she said. “You have done your part, yet it appears already you are planning to go hunting about for some obliging savage to knock you in the head with a death-maul.”

  “But the war is not ended, Elsin.”

  “No, nor like to be until it compasses your death. Then, indeed, will it be ended for me, and the world with it!”

  “Why, Elsin!” I laughed, “this is a new note in your voice.”

  “Is it? Perhaps it is. I told you, Carus, that there is no happiness in love. And, just now, I love you. It is strange, is it not? — when aught threatens you, straightway I begin to sadden and presently fall in love with you; but when there’s no danger anywhere, and I have nothing to sadden me, why, I’m not at all sure that I love you enough to pass the balance of the day in your companionship — only that when you are away I desire to know where you are and what you do, and with whom you walk and talk and laugh. Deary me! deary me! I know not what I want, Carus. Let us go to the Blue Fox and drink a dish of tea.”

  We walked back to the inn through the sweetest evening air that I had breathed in many a day, Elsin stopping now and then to add a blossom to the great
armful of wild flowers that she had gathered, I lingering, happy in my freedom as a lad loosed from school, now pausing to skip flat stones across the Bronx, now creeping up to the bank to surprise the trout and see them scatter like winged shadows over the golden gravel, now whistling to imitate that rosy-throated bird who sits so high in his black-and-white livery and sings into happiness all who hear him.

  The sun was low over the Jersey highlands; swarms of swallows rose, soared, darted, and dipped in the evening sky. I heard the far camp-bugles playing softly, the dulled roll of drums among the eastern hills; then, as the red sun went out behind the wooded heights, bang! the evening gun’s soft thunder shook the silence. And our day was ended.

  CHAPTER VIII

  DESTINY

  On Sunday, having risen early — though not so early as the post relief, whose day begins as soon as a sentry can see clearly for a thousand yards — I dressed me by the rosy light of the rising sun, and, before I breakfasted, wrote a long letter to my parents, who, as I have said, were now residing near Paris, where my great-grandfather’s estate lay.

  When I had finished my letter, sanded and sealed it, I went out to leave it with the packages of post matter collected from the French regiments across the Hudson, and destined for France by an early packet, which was to sail as soon as the long-expected French fleet arrived from the West Indies.

  I delivered my letter to the staff-officer detailed for that duty, and then, hearing military music, went back to the Blue Fox in time to see a funeral of an officer slowly passing eastward, gun-carriage, horses, men, in strange silhouette against the level and dazzling white disk of the rising sun. Truly, the slow cortège seemed moving straight into the flaming gates of heaven, the while their solemn music throbbed and throbbed with the double drum-beat at the finish of each line. The tune was called “Funeral Thoughts.” They changed to “Roslyn Castle” as they crossed the bridge; yet an hour had scarce passed when I heard their volley-firing not very far away, and back they came, the Fife-Major leading, drums, fifes, and light-infantry horns gaily sounding “The Pioneer,” and the men swinging back briskly to fall in with the Church details, now marching in from every direction to the admonitory timing of a single drum-beat.

  The music had awakened Elsin, and presently she came a-tapping at my door, barefoot, her cardinal tightly wrapped around her, hair tumbled, drowsily rubbing her heavy lids.

  “Good morning, Carus,” she said sleepily. “I should dearly like to hear a good, strong sermon on damnation to-day — being sensible of my present state of sin, and of yours. Do they preach hell-fire in Rebeldom?”

  “The landlord says that Hazen’s mixed brigade and other troops go to service in the hay-field above the bridge,” I answered, laughing. “Shall we ride thither?”

  She nodded, yawning, then pulling her foot-mantle closer about her shoulders, pattered back into her chamber, and I went below and ordered our horses saddled, and breakfast to be served us as soon as might be.

  And so it happened that, ere the robins had done caroling their morning songs, and the far, sweet anthems of the hermit-birds still rang in dewy woodlands, Elsin and I dismounted in Granger’s hay-field just as the troops marched up in a long, dense column, the massed music of many regiments ahead, but only a single drum timing the steady tread.

  All was done in perfect decorum and order. A hay-wagon was the pulpit; around it the drummers piled their drums, tier rising on tier; the ensigns draped the national colors over the humble platform, setting regimental and state standards at the corners; and I noted there some curious flags, one borne by a Massachusetts battalion, white, with a green tree on it; another, a yellow naval flag with a coiled rattlesnake; another, carried by a company of riflemen, on which was this design:

  1776.

  XI Virginia Reg’t,

  and I knew that I was looking upon the famous regimental standard of Morgan’s Rifles.

  Without confusion, with only a low-spoken command here and there, battalion after battalion marched up, stacked arms, forming three sides of a hollow square, the pulpit, with its flags and tiers of drums, making the fourth side. The men stood at ease, hands loosely clasped and hanging in front of them. The brigade chaplain quietly crossed the square to his rude pulpit, mounted it, and, as he bowed his head in prayer, every cocked hat came off, every head was lowered.

  Country-folk, yokels, farmers, had gathered from all directions; invalids from the camp hospitals were there, too, faces clay-color, heads and limbs heavily bandaged. One of these, a sergeant of the New York line, who wore a crimson heart sewed on his breast, was led to his place between two comrades, he having both eyes shot out; and the chaplain looked at him hard for a moment, then gave out the hymn, leading the singing in a deep, full voice:

  “Through darkest night

  I know that Thou canst see.

  Night blinds my sight,

  Yet my small voice shall praise Thee constantly.

  Under Thy wing,

  Whose shadow blinds mine eyes,

  Fearless I sing

  Thy sweetness and Thy mercy to the skies!”

  The swelling voices of the soldiers died away. Standing there between our horses, Elsin’s young voice still echoing in my ears, I looked up at the placid face of the preacher, saw his quiet glance sweep the congregation, saw something glimmer in his eyes, and his lips tighten as he laid open his Bible, and, extending his right arm, turn to the south, menacing the distant city with his awful text:

  “The horseman lifteth up the bright sword and the glittering spear!

  “Woe to the bloody city! The chariots shall rage in the streets, they shall jostle one against another in the broad ways! They shall seem like torches, they shall run like the lightnings. They shall make haste to the wall; the defense shall be prepared.

  “For that day is a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness.

  “A day of the trumpet and alarm against fenced cities, and against high towers.

  “For the horseman lifteth up the bright sword.... Woe to the bloody city!”

  Out over the sunlit fields rang the words of Zephaniah and of Nahum. I saw the motionless ranks suddenly straighten; a thousand sunburned faces were upturned, a thousand pairs of eyes fastened themselves upon the steady eyes of the preacher.

  For an hour he spoke to them, beginning with his Excellency’s ever-to-be-remembered admonition: “To the character of a patriot it should be our highest glory to add the more distinguished character of a Christian”; then continued upon that theme nearest the hearts of all, the assault upon New York, which everybody now deemed imminent, thrilling the congregation with hope, inspiring them with high endeavor. I remember that he deprecated revenge, although the score was heavy enough! I remember he preached dignity and composure in adversity, mercy in victory, and at the word his voice rang with prophecy, and the long ranks stirred as dry leaves stir in a sudden wind.

  When at last he asked the blessing, and the ranks had knelt in the stubble, Elsin and I on our knees breathed the Amen, lifted our sun-dazzled eyes, and rose together to mount and ride back through the dust to the Blue Fox, where we were to confer concerning the long-delayed letter which decency required us to write to Sir Peter and Lady Coleville, and also take counsel in other matters touching the future, which seemed as obscure as ever.

  Since that first visit from Colonel Hamilton I had received orders from headquarters to be ready to leave for the north at an hour’s notice, and that suitable quarters would be ready at West Point for my wife.

  There were a dozen officers lodged at the tavern, but my acquaintance with them advanced nothing beyond a civil greeting, for I cared not to join them in the coffee-room, where sooner or later some question concerning Elsin must annoy me. It was sufficient that they knew my name and nothing more either of my business or myself or Elsin. No doubt some quiet intimation from headquarters had spared us visits from quartermasters and provost marshals
, for nobody interfered with us, and, when at the week’s end I called for our reckoning — my habits of method ever uppermost in my mind — the landlord refused to listen, saying that our expenses were paid as long as we remained at the Blue Fox, and that if we lacked for anything I was to write to Colonel Hamilton.

  This I had done, being sadly in need of fresh linen, and none to be had in the shops opposite. Also I enclosed a list of apparel urgently desired by Elsin, she having writ the copy, which was as long as I am tall; but I sent it, nevertheless, and we expected to hear from Colonel Hamilton before evening. For all we had was the clothing we wore on our backs, and though for myself I asked nothing but linen, I should have been glad of a change of outer garments, too.

  We dined together at our little table by the window, decorously discussing damnation, predestination, and other matters fitting that sunny Sabbath noontide. And at moments, very, very far away, I heard the faint sound of church-bells, perhaps near North Castle, perhaps at Dobbs Ferry, so sweet, so peaceful, that it was hard to believe in eternal punishment and in a God of wrath; hard, too, to realize that war ruled half a continent, and that the very dogs of war, unchained, prowled all around us, fangs bared, watching the sad city at the river’s ends.

  When the servants had removed the cloth, and had fetched the materials for writing which I had ordered, we drew our chairs up side by side, and leaned upon the table to confer in regard to a situation which could not, of course, continue much longer.

  “The first thing to consider,” said I, “is the flag to take you north.” And I looked curiously at Elsin.

  “How can we decide that yet?” she asked, aggrieved. “I shall not require a flag if we — fall in love.”

  “We’ve had a week to try,” I argued, smiling.

  “Yes, but we have not tried; we have been too happy to try. Still, Carus, we promised one another to attempt it.”

  “Well, shall we attempt it at once?”