by Desmond Dilg
“Why should I be more reticent, Catherine? I am only talking to you, and nobody is listening.”
“It’s not the fashion, Betsy, that's all I know. But like you, I also wish that my husband should be manly and bold, strong and great. I don’t like those sleek, namby-pamby sort of men who’ve no daring in them. A woman should be good and true and a man should be strong, bold and full of spirit.”
“I’ll tell you what we'll do,” said Betsy, jokingly. “You and I shall marry Mr. Burr and Mr. Hamilton between us. I know you like them both as much as I do, but you don’t say it—you dear deceiver you.”
“Now for goodness sake, be quiet Betsy,” said Catherine, blushing furiously.
Whereupon Betsy arose saying:
“I think I'll go out and see where the men have gone to. It's as solemn as a funeral in here since they all went away.”
“O, don’t, pray don’t,” answered Catherine impetuously. “Father would be very angry with you for doing such a thing. You’ve often heard him say that well-bred ladies should never inquire or hunt too much after the affairs of men nor attempt to discover men's secrets. “Men know and have to mix up in things women should avoid, he says over and over again.”
“Nevertheless, I am going,” said Betsy, willfully. “I can’t stand those Van Ranneslaer girls. They won’t talk, except you squeeze them. They’re just like dolls and the room is as dull as a church when the Reverend Salem Smidt preaches.”
Now the men had gone out by a side door opening on a long dark corridor and Miss Betsy followed.
Perceiving a small swinging oil lamp hanging at one end of the passageway, she walked softly on tiptoe towards it, her head full of mischief and bubbling over with curiosity. A sort of strange instinct seemed to hurry her on.
As she approached nearer to the light, however, a feeling of sudden apprehension, a shadowy sense of foreboding fell upon her, for she beheld in the half shadow beyond the light what appeared to be the seated figure of a weirdly strange strong old man with a long white beard, and a shining double-edged dagger lying across his knees.
“I wonder,” she thought, “who he is, and what he is doing there. I never saw him before and yet I know everything and everybody in this house, for I played here when a little girl. When in New York, it has always been my home. The curious old man by the door of the basement! What does it mean?”
Just then through the door alongside of which sat the old man came a dull muffled sound, as of the shuffling of many feet and the falling on the floor inside of some heavy body.
Whereupon the old man with the naked dagger arose from his seat and gave two distinct knocks upon the upper panel of the door with the iron hilt of his weapon. The knocks sounded bodeful of evil to Betsy.
Immediately the shuffling inside ceased. All again was silent as the grave, except of the distant sound of what appeared to be the steady strokes of a hammer on a coffin; and a solitary voice intoning a prayer or incantation.
“O,” thought Betsy, as her heart beat wildly, “I know what it is now. It is a Secret Society, and all the men are in there, and the dance of tonight was only an excuse for them gathering together here to avoid arousing the suspicion of the government.”
Then a thought full of strategy came into her quick teeming brain.
“I’ll go down the old hidden passage in the wall and look in. That will be fine, I’ll see it all.”
Whereupon she turned and fled up the corridor.
However, her presence had been detected by the suspicious old man, who was evidently acting as outer door guard. He immediately passed in a report through the hidden speaking tube that a “something” dressed in white had swept rapidly up the passage. At the same time he opened a cupboard in the wall and turned what appeared to be a large iron crank five times.
Meanwhile Betsy passed the drawing room door and climbed the stairs to her own room. There she rapidly made some alterations in her dress and climbing another flight of stairs she entered a half dark lumber room with a deep recess in the wall near the sunken fireplace. Betsy went into the recess and removed from the wall a set of shelves containing old books, manuscripts, Indian curiosities etc. revealing an opening in the stonework about two feet square.
Crushing herself through this opening she found herself on the rungs of a rusty iron ladder let into the stone and leading upward at an inclined plane.
Gathering her skirts tight about her, she moved swiftly through the dust and cobwebs as if perfectly familiar with the place. Often had she been through it in her childhood days.
Presently she stood on what appeared to be a landing. Opening without hesitation a door on the left she entered another dark passage. Down it she went to the end. Then lifting a trap door by a big iron ring, she descended another flight of stone steps and found herself in a small dark alcove.
Through the north wall of the alcove a curiously blended red light shone. It was the light from the lodge room shining through the glass panel of a large old-fashioned eight-day clock. Betsy approached it stealthily.
The clock was over ten feet tall and fastened by iron bolts to the wall. Behind the clock and inside the alcove, where Betsy stood were a number of cog wheels and iron levers, all forming part of some curious old-fashioned machine.
Betsy with girlish activity climbed over this mechanism and stepped into the interior of the clock, alongside of the great iron weights and swinging bronze pendulum.
She moved cautiously so as not to disturb the swing of the pendulum. As she stepped in, however, a very slight change took place in the mechanism. The old rusty cogs seemed to move behind Betsy in the dark, without her observing them. Chains fastened to the rear wall began to slowly tighten.
Betsy climbed up inside the clock to where the light shone in. Here she found the coloring matter (frosted on the glass) had been, on the lower corner, carefully scraped off as if by some one bent on the same purpose of curiosity as herself.
Betsy balanced her body steadily and looked long and earnestly into the lodge room. In pure delight with herself, thus she thought:
“Now I can see everything. There they are, every one of them. But I wonder what they do. I wonder what their secrets are.”
Just then by command of the Supreme One, Aaron Burr repeated aloud the omnific word of the Great Ing.
Then the members of the lodge marched around the hall with right arms bare to the shoulder and saluted the Symbol of the Ing with their swords, upon which there was blood.
“O, this is delightful,” thought Betsy. “This is quite an adventure. It is just like the magic story book: even the magic prince is in it too, and all in real life. How often I have heard old Judge Van Horn say “Romance is a fool compared to Fact.”
And here I am hidden inside the old clock, and there my brothers within the weird Secret Lodge, together with my father, my cousins, the magic prince, and Aleck. But those awful lamps with the light shining through the eye sockets in the grinning skulls —they are horrible, they make my flesh creep.
And all the men have got their swords drawn and wine glasses in their hands, and there is blood upon * * * * and their throats are bare, and what is that laying on the stone floor by the great hole in the flags? It makes me shudder.”
Here Betsy trembled violently for she perceived what appeared to be the bodies of three men wrapped in red cloth laying at the foot of the iron altar of the Ing, upon which stood the three Amens, the Iron Cross, the bowl of red-liquid, and the Flaming Scroll.
Betsy continued to soliloquize: “I wonder what it means. Are those things on the floor dead men or what are they? What is the blood for? What is the fire for? And the curious bright sword (like brass) sticking upright in the coffin? And the long coil of rope? And the yellow flag with the coiled snake? And the great red spear?
O, my I’m getting frightened. I wish now I had not done this. I feel like a spy, like a very criminal.”
Presently Hamilton began to speak and a sense of enchantment and calm swept
hypnotically over her as she continued to listen to his very pleasing voice.
Then came the terrific ritual and the awful oath of the revolutionary brotherhood, also the secret signs, the grips and words, the explanation of the reversible symbols, the interpretation of the Flaming Scroll, the Saga of the Iron Ing, the naked blades, the klinking of the glasses, the drinking of the * * * * and other things not to be mentioned to the ears of the Non-Instructed.
All of which Betsy heard and saw distinctly and treasured up in a very retentive memory to her dying day.
It was only to be expected that the terrific and ancient ritual, (the ritual that tamed the fierce souls of Gothic kings and Scythian conquerors) would have a somewhat cooling effect upon this impulsive Albany maiden.
But Betsy was not an ordinary young woman. About her there was a something daring and romantic, tragic and ambitious. She was never satisfied with the hum-drum. She longed to be more than her associates. In fact she was not “content with her lot.” She felt there was a something wanting in her life, though she did not know what it was. Almost unconsciously down deep in her heart she was searching for that undefinable partner of her being without whose discovery no woman is complete. In fact the “old, old story” was stirring in her soul.
Now, Miss Betsy was also a furious little rebel and she therefore listened to the short speeches of Hamilton and Burr with beating heart and unlimited approval.
When Burr concluded she thought:
“O, this is really lovely. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Mr. Burr is a real hero. I could hug him and Mr. Hamilton, too. Why, they’re all heroes, yes, every one of them. Are they not plotting in secret to overthrow an evil king? How noble they look, so young, so brave, so valiant, so strong, sword in hand, swearing allegiance to their country's Cause and vengeance on the wicked oppressor. O, I love them. I’d like to kiss every one of them. How Catherine would like to be here! I do declare, the heroes have really come alive again. There they are, right before me. Why, now I see it all. Is not valor and ambition stamped on their brows?
“And then their speeches, how very unusual and yet how divinely beautiful and full of manliness.[*] Indeed they speak like gods. How unlike the tiresome sentimentalism of that old fogey, the kings-college professor, whom my uncle brings home to dinner sometimes.
“And then Mr. Burr with his glorious black eyes, how grand he is? What an air of natural distinction and pride there is about him? How beautiful to look upon? He is a veritable hero. I know he is a hero, I know, I know.
“Aleck Hamilton I like too, but the 'Magic Prince' he charms my very soul and fills me with dreams. How extraordinary and radiant he is, like an inspired prophet or knight of old going forth to lead his people in the wars: aye, and when he lifts his sword to take that fearful oath he does it with all the gesture and grace of a king.”
During all this time the mechanism around and behind Betsy was moving quietly towards her. However, in the excitement at what she saw, she had failed to observe that the machinery had imprisoned her as in a trap.
Presently she felt a pressure on her back and tried to turn round and escape, but could not.
Straightway, much to Betsy's confusion a strange clanging noise arose within the clock. The clanging sounded like the crowing of a cock.
The sound had a magical effect on the members of the lodge. At the second crow the lights went out and dead silence reigned in the lodge room. Betsy trembling with fear wished herself a thousand miles away. Meantime the mechanism continued to work and the pressure on Miss Betsy's back became more insistent.
Then from out the darkness came the voice of the Master of the Lodge, her own father, saying:
“An alarm from the Evil One. To your steel, my brothers—To your steel. The hour is.”
The cock continued to crow vociferously. Then the trampling of many feet approached the clock in the darkness. Miss Betsy was in a cold sweat from fear of the unknown.
On the iron altar within the lodge the Master's iron hammer rang angrily three times.
Klang!
Klang!
Klang!
III
The Secret Society
The gentle Gawain; Pelinore;
Percival: Sir Kay the Keen:
And Launcelot that evermore
Looked stol’n-wise on the Queen.
The Death of Arthur.
Now in order that the reader may have a clear consecutive and proper comprehension of the happenings both within and without the secret lodge it is essential to go back upon our story somewhat.
We must return therefore to the festive hall before the disappearance of the men and long before Miss Betsy set out upon her venturous quest.
* * * * *
“Betsy you dreadful little flirt. You are acting scandalously. There is Aleck Hamilton over yonder looking as if he was about to be hung, and this is actually the fourth time to night you have danced with his dark-eyed friend, the mysterious Mr. Burr “the magic prince, as you call him.” Thus said Catherine Schuyler to her sister Elizabeth, who straightway replied:
“There now, you fault-finding dear. Why you yourself danced thrice with Mr. Troup, while Moncrieffe (who is I know in love with you) sulked sadly and then in desperation danced with the two Clinton girls.
“As for the “magic prince” he quite beglamoured me with his courteous and bewitching ways. When he talks to me I feel like a princess, and he just makes me do anything he wants. And then his eyes, they’re just too, too awful. O, Catherine, they pierce into one's soul, and his voice, when he speaks, it is just like the tones of some wonderful fairy bell.”
“I see you are in love with him Betsy, but how about Aleck?” said Catherine.
“You can have him Catherine, I know you like him,” answered Betsy. But I have neglected him shamefully. I'll go over and talk to him and try to make him happy. Poor, dear Aleck. I like him too, he is such a good companion. But then he is so dreadfully sentimental and so full of flowery compliments.”
Whereupon Miss Betsy moved rapidly over to Hamilton's side and began talking to him in a happy-go-lucky, good-natured, bantering way.
* * * * *
Now, the Livingstons at the time of these happenings were one of the wealthiest families in New York. The founders of the family were of that hard level-headed Scotch-Irish strain (renowned for its valor and partisanship)—a strain that has given to America so many celebrated politicians, fluent orators and dashing warriors.
In the Colonial days, when only property-holders could vote or hold office, their influence was immense They were very prolific and their ramifications and affiliations with other of the old ruling families was quite phenomenal. They had countless cousins, sisters, aunts. Indeed, the Livingstons were more than a family, they were a tribe. Being stanch Presbyterians all their instincts were entirely anti-Royalist, and their great wealth (in rents and trade) proved of immense assistance to the revolutionary propaganda.
Judge Livingston was wont to say, “When evil men bear sway, the place of honor is in the ranks of revolt.”
Little wonder therefore that all his sons took an active part in the war of Independence, and thereafter became prominent and successful political and merchantile chiefs.
The family was closely connected with General Phillip Schuyler's family, also with the Van Ranselaers, Moncrieffes and Clintons. Thus the gathering of the evening was somewhat in the nature of a family reunion. Not more than three persons present were unrelated. It was, as it were, a rally of the clans.
* * * * *
Now Betsy Schuyler had hazel eyes and dark hair and a fresh clear healthy complexion. Her slender profile was very bewitching, her bust fully developed and her manner bubbling over with human friendliness, joy-of-life and animal spirits.
A low cut dress, adorned around the edges with French lace, exposed her snowy shoulders and breast. Upon a pillar-like neck her well-formed head was firmly poised. She possessed a bright, happy, joyous smile and over her h
igh square forehead a thick mass of lustrous hair was coquettishly combed back, and fastened behind in a fashion peculiar to the time.
Catherine, her sister, though about the same age was more staid in manner, more mature and womanly, with a kind-hearted, good-natured, and somewhat studious expression. She was utterly without guile and deeply in love with Alexander Hamilton, though she felt in her heart that he was rather attracted towards her more beautiful and very vivacious sister.
Betsy was frank and full of fun, everlastingly teasing or tormenting somebody, always laughing and romping; a regular little tomboy, yet withal well-bred and ladylike.
She was extremely fond of music. The tones of the string band in the dance room seemed to shake her very soul with excitement.
It was curious to observe, however, that when she talked to Aaron Burr, her whole demeanor changed. She became more subdued, she blushed, stammered, a wistful expression came over her face and her half hidden bosom heaved with rapider pulsations.
One could plainly perceive that she was deeply in love with Burr, although she had not known him more than two hours. Even a tyro in the arts of Cupid could not fail to observe that Burr was first favorite. Hamilton saw it with some pique, but not over resentful feelings.
Burr, being a splendid judge of character, understood Miss Betsy thoroughly. He paid her therefore every attention, as it was his nature to do. Her very evident liking for him flattered his vanity though his heart remained wholly unmoved.
Hamilton on the other hand, admired Miss Betsy, and, though he did not passionately love her, yet it was in his mind to woo and win her.
His admiration for her was wholly of the judgment. He saw her many charms and attraction, and therefore had concluded in his own mind to make her his wife if he could. He therefore never missed an opportunity to be by her side, and she thus had become accustomed to his attentions, compliments and moods.