Rival Caesars

by Desmond Dilg

  Schuyler is a commissary general, the very thing that he is specially fit for. Truxton is to get command of Hancock's privateer brig and sail out as a commerce destroyer. Paul Jones is also slated for a sloop of war, now nearly ready for launching.

  Just as Drake and Frobisher hunted down the treasure laden galleons of Spain, so we propose to hunt down the wealthy fleets of England.

  The Earl of Stirling is appointed a Brigadier-General under Washington (the new commander in chief) who is by the way Lord Fairfax's business partner. I myself am a colonel and you (not yet 21) are a major, already renowned for valor and adventure. Your military exploits in Canada are much talked of in the most influential circles. This means much to you.

  Thus our plans are working beautifully. The revolutionary sentiment seems to carry everything before it. The De Lancey gang alone hold aloof. Fortune is favoring us in every way. That we shall rise on the crest of the coming wave I have not the slightest doubt, especially if the war lasts, and I think it will last, for kings never give up without a bloody struggle.

  After all, war is the thing. I am delighted with war. Hurrah, I say, for fame and love. They go together as you say. Peace is for pawnbrokers, theologians and professors. “The wars for my money” as Shakespeare writes. When wars come young men have a chance to rise. If a few do get riddled, what matter? Are there not plenty more where they came from? When wars break out, then the clever old greybeards must take a rear seat and leave to youth the molding of events. What a fine thing it is to be young, Burr. Did you ever think of it?

  You write much of James Wilkinson. Is he returning with you? From what you say of him he seems to be a splendid young fellow. He has one very grave fault, however, being rather too fond of the wine when it is red. Overmuch indulgence in the brimming glass has, I know, a somewhat relaxing effect on a man's veracity.

  Betsy Schuyler is more subdued now, and I think more beautiful than ever. She looks as if she had a weight upon her mind, some secret sorrow. Every time she meets me she inquires about you, and grows quite enthusiastic over your action in carrying off the body of General Montgomery through that fierce snow storm and hail of bullets. The whole story is related in the papers by the chaplain of your regiment, the Rev. Samuel Spring.

  I am satisfied in my own mind that you hold a tender place in Miss Betsy's regard. Hamilton is evidently your strongest rival. He is first favorite with her father you know, who is very rich. Hamilton is now quite celebrated as a political writer. He publishes pamphlets in collaboration with Judge Livingston, directed against the Loyalists.

  When the papers described you with the body of the dead general on your back, amid the hail of grape shot at Cape Diamond, I heard Miss Betsy remark to Hamilton: “O my, wasn’t that just grand? I always thought Mr. Burr was a hero and now I’m sure of it.”

  A look of vexation passed over Hamilton's vivacious countenance, but he replied circumspectly.

  “Brave! Aaron Burr is the bravest man I ever knew and as cool as ice. He is full of energy and eager for advancement. He is of a temper that thinks no enterprise too hazardous, and sanguine enough to think none too difficult. He is one of those men who would scale Olympus and carry off the thunderbolts of Jove.”

  Hamilton is your friend, but if you are to be rivals in love I would advise you to watch him closely. A man's own brother is not to be trusted when there is a woman in view. Women are the very devil you know for breaking up friendship between men. I am confident that Hamilton means to marry Miss Betsy and win a truly good and beautiful wife, besides 10,000 pounds in gold.

  Clinton is deeply in love with a certain Miss Monroe of Philadelphia, and as for myself I am of late never happy except in the neighborhood of the lovely Miss Dolly. I want a wife badly and must have one. Like Hamilton, I would like to capture one possessing those three divine attributes of a perfect woman, goodness, beauty and wealth.

  Helen Livingston desires to be remembered to you. She is General Montgomery's sister in law. I met her last week at the Garrison Ball, a really superior affair altogether. Helen was positively charming with her great big blue eyes and hanks of raven hair.

  All our leading men were present including the stately General Washington, a big Southerner who is now Commander of the united forces in all the colonies. He is personally highly pleased with your services and activity in Canada. Though his nature is somewhat chilly and sombre he almost waxed enthusiastic over your escapade in carrying Arnold's dispatch to Montgomery, and your being hidden 24 hours in the convent among the French nuns at Montreal.

  Washington desires me to specially inform you that he will provide for you, and that he expects you to join him and stay in his family as one of his aides. “I want men like Major Burr near me,” he commented, “young men of daring initiative, full of resource and self reliance.”

  This will be further promotion for you. Indeed it is quite an event in itself. To be so directly complimented by the C. I. C. is a feather in your cap. Besides developing your military ambitions, you will thus have splendid opportunity to become acquainted with all the finest belles and heiresses of the land, and there are some dashing ones I do assure you. I envy you, Burr, I really do—you are a lucky fellow; and so is Hamilton.

  As the general's secretary you will also be enabled in a thousand ways to promote the policy of the Iron Cross.

  Washington. as you are probably aware, is the wealthiest and most influential man in America. He has a magnificent carriage, is over 6 ft. tall, of a good old Cavalier family, has a fine fortune, a very extensive landed estate and I believe belongs to our 5th degree. He fought for the king all through the late Indian and French wars, has a large tobacco plantation in Virginia, owns hundreds of slaves, is a famous athlete and when in the City drives about in a splendid chariot behind six handsome bay horses. It is the widely expressed opinion that he is just the right man in the right place, as all classes can unite under him with safety and perfect confidence.

  Notwithstanding the current leveling theories to the contrary, I still hold to the well tested old faith that the wealthiest men in a community are its natural leaders. Woe unto any nation that pulls down its strongest and most successful personalities to exalt those of low degree. The “failures” in life are necessarily of weak character and therefore wholly unfitted to be entrusted with the management of great affairs.

  I went out of my way to meet you coming down the river but unfortunately I missed you. I desire to talk over some private matters that cannot be safely entrusted to the cypher.

  By the way, I have sold your black horse. I wanted the money badly, and you won't object I know.

  One last word before you arrive amid attractions and lures and dissipations of New York and Albany. As your best friend I speak. Beware of the feminine, Burr, beware of the feminine. There is weakness and destruction in their soft dalliance. You have a fatal fascination for nearly every woman you meet. I know this of old. It must eventually be your ruin if you don’t watch out. Women will trip you up in the path of greatness even as they have done before to so many good men and true. Everywhere the feminine sits by the highway luring men off from the pursuit of power and fame. . . .

  I remain my dear friend and brother,

  Most sincerely,

  MATHIAS OGDEN,

  Lieut.-Col.

  VII

  An Apollo of Revolution

  He trod the ling

  Like a buck in Spring,

  And looked like

  A lance in rest.

  An extraordinary attractive young woman with great masses of lustrous auburn hair clustering over a noble brow, sat reading a long letter on the balcony of No. 1 Broadway.

  Thus she read:

  In New York society Major Burr is the center of all attraction and truly he is a fascinating and remarkable man.

  He is a social lion of the season and his manner and bearing is simply delightful. He is as pleasing to the wrinkled old lady of sixty as to the budding young maiden of “swee
t sixteen.” Indeed, wherever he goes the women flock around him like buzzing bees. Rich and poor it is all the same. He has only to smile upon a feminine, and she straightway falls down and worships him. To me, also, he seems the very embodiment of Chivalry and Knighthood— handsome, generous, patriotic, recklessly brave.

  The men laugh and call him a dandy—a “ladies’ man.” Indeed his reputation as a lady-killer has preceded him. This reputation seems as it were to prepare his way for new conquests. Most women you know are very much interested in the man who is reputed to be deeply admired by other women.

  We are never tired of listening to accounts of his romantic adventures and hair-breadth escapes during the Canadian expedition. Especially how General Montgomery, your uncle, (when riddled with grapeshot) fell dead into his arms at Wolfe's Cove.

  I feel sure if Major Burr lived in Asia he could out-rival old King Solomon in the number of his wives. In dress he is a fashionable beau, and when he speaks, the musical timbre of his deep, rich, baritone voice penetrates one like the throb of a drum. I really believe there is something unnatural and uncanny about him, for his eyes, positively sparkle and glitter like midnight stars.

  All the men are highly jealous of him and some of them say very spiteful things behind his back—and a young French minx whom he danced with last night at the Clinton ball says positively she believes that he has the evil eye.

  All my brothers, however, speak enthusiastically of Major Burr and so do the Southern officers—you know General Washington made him his aide and amanuensis—but Major Burr resigned because he desired to see more active service, having no talent for the life of a clerk—wishing to fight rather with sword than pen. I hear he is now to join General Putnam's staff in New York.

  I am quite angry with Washington for not making Mr. Burr a general. So is Captain Swartwout, Mr. Burr's most intimate friend—who tells me General Washington did not like “little Burr” because the latter is too independent by nature and not easy to control.

  O. Margaret, I am in love with this bewitching young officer—I am sure I am. I am sure he is noble and great of soul—and such a perfect gentleman. How handsome and winning he looks when he talks and smiles. Then my heart seems to sing with joy.

  This letter was signed “Helen Livingston” and addressed to the reader thereof “Miss Margaret Moncrieffe.” It contained many more pages in a similar gossipy girlish impressionist style—but they had better remain unprinted for at least another 100 years. They contained the cream of New York society gossip relating principally to love-entanglements, engagements, marriages, births, etc., etc.—the things that all women delight in.

  Miss Livingston was the twenty-year-old daughter of Judge Livingston. As will be inferred from her letter, Helen Livingston was deeply in love with Aaron Burr and being herself of a warm trusting nature, she did not seek to disguise the fact from her female intimates.

  Most of her friends pretended to joke and make light of Helen's infatuation, but as many of them—most of them perhaps—were more or less in love with Burr themselves, their joking partook somewhat of jealousy and this Helen knew instinctively and resented.

  Margaret Moncrieffe was a cousin by marriage, also a confidante and personal friend of Helen's. She was residing with General Putnam's family in New York, No. 1 Broadway—the headquarters of the army of the revolution. At this time the British were preparing to assault and capture the city.

  Margaret, though reading the letter for the tenth time, had first received it when resident in Elizabethtown at the house of Mrs. De Hart—from whence she had recently been escorted over by order of General Washington.

  The officer in charge of the detail of troops that brought her to New York, was named Webb. He was accompanied by Major Burr.

  Margaret's father, Major, (afterward Colonel Moncrieffe) was a British officer—Lord Percy's Brigade Major—then stationed on Staten Island. (This Lord Percy was a direct descendant of the hero of Chevy Chase.) Miss Moncrieffe's grandmother was a daughter of Sir John Vining, six times Lord Mayor of Portsmouth. Her grandfather, Colonel Herron, became governor of Annapolis (and died there). Her uncle was a British admiral. Colonel Herron was a relative of the Duke of Bolton and Lord Delaware.

  Major Moncrieffe was married to a New York Livingston—Helen's aunt. Afterwards he was married a second time to Miss Jay, a sister of John Jay, the statesman.

  When hostilities first broke out it was thought that perhaps he might be prevailed upon (like so many other English officers with American affiliations) to throw in his lot with the Colonies.

  Every possible inducement was held out to him (including the offer of a generalship in the American Army) for he was known to be an Engineer officer of remarkable ability. However, though married to an American heiress (and related therefore to nearly the entire revolutionary junta) and possessing more than £10,000 worth of landed property in New York (a considerable fortune in those days) he choose to cast in his fortunes with the King, from whom he held his commission.

  During the secret negotiations between the leaders of the revolution in New York and Major Moncrieffe, his daughter, Margaret, was kept captive—a sort of hostage as it were—by order of Congress, but against the express wish of General Putnam.

  Major Moncrieffe proved intractable. In opinions, he was fanatically Royalist—and his daughter, Margaret—as might be expected, was also an impassioned loyalist, though she was American born. In after years Major Moncrieffe became much talked of in connection with the siege of Savannah and Charleston.

  On one occasion it is related, when Washington proposed the toast of “the American Congress,” Margaret Moncrieffe being present, refused to raise her glass—whereupon the Commander in Chief laughingly protested, calling her “the fiery little Tory.”

  Margaret then arose, her cheeks flaming, and lifted her glass defiantly, saying: “Here's to our King and success to his Redcoats.”

  Whereupon Washington refilled his glass with good red wine, stood up and said (with courtier grace)—amid much merriment:

  “Beautiful maiden, I drink to thy loveliness and spirit but not to the King.”

  This incident caused quite an altercation between Washington and Putnam—Putnam having introduced Margaret to the Assembly. Disputes arose over the affair among the other officers and several duels were fought in consequence.

  Putnam warmly defended Margaret, saying:

  “We keep this maiden here against her father's express wish. She is half ward, half prisoner of the American Congress, and her disloyal audacity should merely amuse us. Is she not after all only a child?”

  Now Miss Margaret among her other accomplishments was an amateur artist of no mean ability and for hours every day she would sit on the roof of General Putnam's residence sketching birds and dogs, ships and horses, also the faces of men and women who happened to attract her attention. While thus engaged she might often be seen gazing wistfully across the bay towards Staten Island where she knew her father's brigade lay.

  On several occasions she had attempted to make a sketch of Burr's clear-cut, handsome face, but somehow she ever failed to catch the elusive expression. His was a strange intangible expression, an expression Sphinx-like and full of proudness but very pleasing to every beholder.

  Most of her time, however, was spent in painting flowers, the language of flowers being then all the rage.

  Miss Margaret was for her age (about 16) a splendid looking laughing maiden with long golden hair and a mole upon her chin. Her eyes were dark hazel, her features clear-cut and distinct, with that peculiar expression and contour that is ever derived from good breeding and superiority of descent. (Proud indeed might he be who felt himself born of such a maid.)

  Margaret's great cluster of warm gold-red hair was particularly noticeable. By it alone she would be specially remarked among a thousand.

  (Strange, that almost all the mightiest men and most famous women of the world have had “red” hair. The great conquerors and the great c
onquering clans have also generally been red headed. In Aryan Mythology red hair is the luminous color of the gods and goddesses. Artists, sculptors and saga-writers have ever delighted to depict the divinities and heroes and heroines with flaming red locks and superabundant beauty of form—and there is a meaning in all this.)

  Without doubt physical strength is the only sure foundation of lasting and real beauty in man or woman. A beautiful face and figure is no accident. It is the harmonious result of a healthy body and perfect anatomy; and these excellences are in their turn, the flower and bloom and blending from generations and generations of the brave and handsome, the pure of blood and the noble of spirit.

  Beauty of form, beauty of mind, beauty of figure are the outcrop of ancestral selections; the outward and visible sign of inward hereditary distinction and grace.

  Truly, Margaret Moncrieffe’s figure was glorious to look upon. Youth and abounding health surged through her veins. Her skin was soft and clear like that of a tender rose leaf-her glance magical, alluring, man-bewildering—her thoughts full of innocence —purity and all kindness.

  She was indeed a superb specimen of young American maidenhood—possessing all those indefinable graces and charms that attract and capture men.

  An air of proud yet refined aloofness and intellect rested naturally upon her face, and when she spoke, the tones of her rich soft voice seemed as the ravishing strains of some fair enchantress magical harp.