by Desmond Dilg
She was indeed a rich-souled creature; in whom the first germs of womanhood had blossomed forth, without a weed to check or a chill to blight her growth.
Margaret Moncrieffe (the neice of General Montgomery and Colonel Livingston) seemed as if she might well become the mother of kings and conquerors, for the mental and physical balance that denotes perfectness of birth and breeding seemed to be about equally, highly developed within her—(or at least in process of development) for she was still on the tremulous borderland of womanhood.
As one gazed upon her in all the radiant brilliancy and glory of life's pulsing springtide, the men of old renown who staked their fame and power and wealth and honor, for the love clasp of a superb and beautiful woman seemed not so very foolish and weak as the hysterical writers of modern Christendom have delighted to depict them.
After all is it not the first duty of a hero to leave a splendid progeny behind him, and how can he do so without love and co-operation of a superb feminine? Therefore, why should he not go to any extreme in order to obtain possession of a thoroughbred woman, a glorious Eve, a woman who might become the mother and ancestress of valorous, mighty and unconquerable men?
If it is heroic and commendable to invade, conquer and possess a virgin continent, is it not equally commendable for greatness-of-soul to assert its own wild will in the capture of a glorious feminine, to be thereafter the mother of victorious sons? (Is not the immortality of a man in his descendants?)
What is the world itself but an arena for Love and Conquest? Are we not here to increase and multiply and Take Possession? Whosoever “believeth” otherwise hath surely not been endowed with the power to either think or observe. He is but a Wise Man in the estimation of the foolish.
The Warrior and the Woman. Verily, what on earth has ever been greater than those two?
The initial passions of men and women, the ever endless hunt for food and love, (that is to say for power) are assuredly the original impulses that set everything in motion. They are the glowing fiery furnaces blazing underneath the ever-grinding Enginery of Existence, and into them must always be poured in one unceasing stream, the living pulsing fuel that keeps them burning, that is to say: the bones and brains, the lives and souls of countless millions.
Love the great Creator of life, and war the great Selector! Who that is human can gainsay them? In the fullness of their all-sufficing pride and overwhelming strength, they now as of old-time sweep away every obstruction no matter how well contrived.
Only individuals of weak untempered metal can afford to smile and laugh at these unbindable elemental forces—forces, tragic and inexorable—forces that have flamed empires into ashes and withered continents as with a breath—forces that will do it again and again, for verily the woman and the warrior are unsuppressible.
* * * * *
After reading Miss Livingston’s letter, Miss Moncrieffe thought to herself: “Helen fancies I do not know Mr. Burr. Little she thinks that I have already learnt to think of him even as she does. What splendid eyes he has! I shall never forget them, and Helen speaks truly when she calls him a 'perfect gentleman.'
“I only met him ten days ago, and I really believe I have also fallen in love with him. But then he is in the rebel army and I could never think of marrying an enemy of the king. I wish he was an English officer, for, I like him just a little. A curious instinct draws me towards him. He fascinates me. I tremble when he looks at me.”
Then she put down the letter, gazed wistfully out over the bay toward blue Staten Island, and went on painting a half-finished lily.
The quick decisive step of a man sounded coming up the stairs. An officer with jangling spurs and dressed in bright uniform entered. He was a young man bubbling over with life and health; his coal black eye tense and a-glitter, his step springy and strong and full of self-reliance. There was a something about him which seemed to issue this challenge: “I am a man and who shall dismay me?”
He bowed gracefully to Miss Moncrieffe, and she smilingly saluted him in return. Then he walked over to where she was busily at work on the easel, sat down by her side and began to examine her painting.
“You paint divinely Miss Moncrieffe,” he said, looking deep into her sparkling eyes; eyes like his own all aglow with pulsing life and youth.
“I do my best, Major Burr,” she answered. “I love flowers. They are my favorite subjects. I like beautiful and natural things.”
“So do I,” he said, pleased at her evident artistic enthusiasm. “Beautiful flowers, beautiful thoughts, beautiful actions, but first of all the beautiful things is a beautiful maiden.” And he looked upon her with admiration while she blushed with evident embarrassment.
“But beauty after all, Major Burr, may be only skin deep,” she replied demurely and with a certain tinge of questioning coquetish archness.
“Luckily it is not always so,” he said. “skin-deep beauty is not always deceiving.”
“Now look at that lily I am painting,” she said, “though beautiful to the eye it is not real, it is but paint, a mere shadow of the real.”
“Very true,” was his answer, “the world is full of illusion, yet somehow I’ve always felt that outward beauty of form and figure is intended by Nature to signify internal purity of heart and goodness of disposition.”
“I will not gainsay you, Major, but surely there are beautiful things that are bad.”
“That depends,” said he, “on what we mean by bad. The matter of what is good and what is bad cannot be satisfactorily decided by one strict rule. What is one man's good is another man's poison. However, I think, Miss Moncrieffe, that the evil things of the world, the Calibans and Slave Souls are generally of unpleasing exterior.”
“But may not beauty of form in a man or woman be an evil, Major?” said Margaret tormentingly.
“That's what the professors taught us at Princeton but I never really believed them,” he said.
“You think beauty is a mark of goodness then?”
“Scarcely that, Miss Moncrieffe, but I do think ugliness of form has in it something fundamentally evil. I thing ugliness is a sign of some inward defect or some blood-taint. Even when I go to buy a horse to carry me in war I seek not only courage and endurance but also equine beauty and grace of form.”
“O, Major Burr, that reminds me of poor 'Selim' my Arab pony. You know the horse I rode from Elizabeth Town. He hasn’t had any exercise since then. Could I not take him out for a ride. I do like riding and Selim is such a beauty too. Now isn’t he, Major Burr?”
“I will ask the general, Miss Moncrieffe. I am sure I shall only be too happy to oblige you. If he consents, I invite you to come with me for a ride around the batteries. I am going today to inspect progress and report upon the new fortifications.”
A smile of undisguised delight lit up Miss Moncrieffe's bright vivacious countenance as she thanked him. Whereupon he went away to seek the general, “Old Put.”
Going down the stairs he met Alexander Hamilton and one of the Miss Putnams coming up. Miss Putnam told him her father was in the front office talking to a dispatch-rider just arrived from General Washington.
Hamilton then related how he had got an appointment on Washington's Staff—the position vacated by Burr a few months previously.
Burr congratulated Hamilton and at the same time warned him that Washington was a very hard man to get on with.
“To be secretary to the Commander in Chief is a good position, however,” answered Hamilton gaily. Even if I have to suppress my own personality somewhat, the experience and knowledge I must gain will be of immense service to me afterwards, and to you also, for of course I reckon you a sharer in all my good luck.”
“By the way, Hamilton,” said Burr, “how is your suit progressing with Miss Betsy? I hear you are ‘the man.’”
“I have not seen her lately,” replied Hamilton, “but her father and I are becoming very intimate. He introduced me to Washington and is enthusiastic over my writings in the Pres
s. Indeed he and Livingston have supplied me with some splendid points, which, as you have seen, I made good use of.”
“Goodbye, Hamilton. I wish you luck. I must now go down to see Putnam.”
“Goodbye, Burr. Everything goes well.”
Burr went down stairs and Hamilton went up. Burr found General Israel Putnam poring over the contents of a letter that had just arrived from the Commander in Chief. A look of relief appeared upon his face as his young aide entered. “Just the man I want,” he said. “Here, Burr, what do you make of this? I can scarcely read it.”
Burr took the letter and read it aloud without difficulty.
“What is you opinion?” said the General.
“I think now what I’ve always thought,” replied Burr, sitting down at the desk. “New York cannot be defended successfully as long as the enemy's ships can command the harbor and sail around the island. For urging this view on Washington some months ago he took a dislike to me and I hope, General, you will not do the same. My opinion on the matter has in no wise altered. We are in a trap here. The British fleet may capture this city whenever it likes to try. Without ships we are helpless. They can land behind us, cut off our supplies and then bombard at their pleasure.”
Putnam answered, evidently much pleased:
“I most certainly am not, and shall not be offended at you, for stating your opinion upon this very important and much-mooted point. Have I not requested you to do so? I know you have given deep study to siege problems (for you were at Quebec) and notwithstanding your youth, I have learnt to place confidence in your practical common sense and undoubted ability. Now what would you suggest as a proper reply for me to send?”
“I would tell him,” said Burr, “that his orders would be obeyed to the letter, that every man of the present garrison is prepared to die at his post in defense of the city; but for all that, you have not the remotest hope of being able to triumphantly defend the town because the strategic position of the enemy on the water is superior in every way to our own.
“Then I would plainly intimate to him that New York should be burnt to an ash-heap rather than surrendered.
“Nevertheless, I would make the enemy expend all his strength to gain possession; then vacate ourselves and leave him a smoldering heap of blackened ruins: —instead of a great city for an offensive base.
“Men should not rush lightly into war but when they do then they ought to go at it with a will. Everything that can injure, weaken or paralyze one's foe is then a good and proper weapon. And of all the weapons of war known to me none is more terrible, none is more fearsome to an enemy than Fire. If we could only burn the British fleet out of the water for example?”
“I will consider your ideas,” said General Putnam much interested. “Your argument for fire is, I think, very reasonable. Fire is a tremendous weapon and has always been used in war from the earliest times, but this is now the question, Burr, is it good policy at present? That's what Washington must consider. Might it not alienate the property holders?”
Now Aaron Burr's brain was keen and hard, hard with the hardness of hammered iron, keen with the keenness of tempered steel and he therefore replied:
“GOOD policy, general, is that which wins. Why make concessions to the gallery? If Washington won’t sanction it and the British land, let us burn the city ourselves.”
“But that would be disobedience to orders Burr, and must not be even considered,” replied the old General gravely.
“Nevertheless, the greatest of generals have become famous through disobeying orders more often than by obeying them,” said Burr with a smile.
“The dispatch rider returns tomorrow,” answered the general, “and in the meantime I will sleep upon this matter. “What you say I will carefully consider.”
Burr arose to go, saying: “Very well, general, I am now going out for a ride 'round the new earthworks, also to see what progress is being made with the gun-emplacements by the North East bastion.”
“But before going, general, I have a personal favor to ask of you. Can Miss Moncrieffe come out with me? She is eager to exercise her pony. She is one of those dashing Dianas who're never so happy as when she has a springing thoroughbred prancing beneath her.”
“O, certainly, Major. Take her with you by all means, but see to it you don’t lose her or lose your heart. She is really a splendid girl. When I look upon her I only wish I was a younger man. She is a wicked little Tory though, and you’d better beware she does not corrupt you and carry you off bag and baggage to the king's side. We can’t afford to lose officers of your stamp.” Thus said General Putnam as he, laughing pleasantly, mixed himself a whiskey punch upon the most approved principles.
* * * * *
Major Burr and Miss Moncrieffe rode down the Battery Road together. She was mounted on her high-mettled pony whose glossy coat shone in the sun like polished glass. The pony pranced and pawed and arched its neck as if in conscious pride of its fair burden.
Margaret held the reins and her seat in the saddle with the confident ease and lithe abandon of the practiced horse woman.
If she looked beautiful painting flowers under the awning on the house-top, she now looked positively ravishing in her tight fitting riding habit with the flush of youth and health glowing in her cheeks.
Burr gazed at her rounded contour, sparkling eyes, and rosy complexion with undisguised admiration. No maiden had ever before seemed half so attractive to him.
“She is the one for me,” he thought. “I will marry her if I can. Helen is too plain. Catherine is too delicate. Betsy I do not care for (and Hamilton wants her). Flora is altogether too intellectual. Louise is too wild and Rebecca is a regular little flirt; but Miss Moncrieffe, Margaret, is just the maid for me. She is kind and good, well-born, well-connected and well- bred.”
Now Burr's horse was a tall raw-boned chestnut with bloodshot eyes, Roman nose, a long swish tail, deep chest, and legs like bars of banded steel. “With the mouth of a bell, the heart of hell and the head of a gallow’s tree.”
Fastened to the saddle swung a cavalry saber and in the holsters were two long heavy horse pistols.
Major Burr wore the blue and gold revolutionary uniform and his seat in the saddle was that of a young centaur. He seemed as it were, part of the steed he rode.
In the eyes of a maid, especially such a maid as Margaret Moncrieffe, he looked the very beau ideal of what a man and a lover should be, young, handsome, manly; a veritable warrior Apollo, the virile incarnation of strength, valor, pride and victory—the qualities in a man that the unsophisticated natural woman instinctively admires.
The delight which all women take in men of power and valor is elemental and undying. From the dawn of time it has ever been the instinctive wish of a good woman to mate herself with the boldest and most heroic man of her acquaintance. And in this there is a profound mystery and meaning. Its purpose is divine and godlike, that is to say, Selective of the Best and Bravest.
Woe, woe unto the nation when it ceases to produce war-men. Woe, woe unto the nation wherein the Man of Battle is not regarded as the highest and holiest product of connubial love.
Burr and Margaret rode along, side by side, passed through many an old wooden gate, and were everywhere met by pleasant words and glances. After inspecting the “works,” that he had come out to see, both of them turned their horse's heads homeward by another route than that whereby they came.
When within sight of home Margaret insisted on jumping her horse over a low fence “just for practice you know.”
She rode at the fence and leaped it most gracefully, her long, bronze hair flaming out like a golden banner. But as Selim landed on the other side the saddle turned round, (the girth having become slack during the long morning ride) and Margaret fell heavily on the ground—her foot hanging in the stirrup.
High-spirited Selim immediately began to prance and rear up in fear. Then he started off at a gallop, dragging his fair mistress over the rough road, striking her v
iolently against the stones and stumps that littered the ground, and kicking viciously all the time.
Burr saw what had happened. “By God, she will be killed, kicked to death before my eyes!” he gasped.
Plunging the rowels into the flanks of the big raking chestnut, he cleared the fence at a bound and galloped up alongside of Selim. Then he reached out his right hand to grasp Selim's dragging rein, but the rein broke in his hand and Selim rushed away again plunging and kicking savagely at the saddle swinging under his belly, in which the legs of his mistress were hopelessly jammed and tangled.
Then another idea came into Burr's quick brain. He drew his long heavy saber, and again followed Selim at a hand gallop. Overtaking the terrified animal, he swung the saber with the accurate precision of an expert swordsman, bringing it down with a quick shearing cut upon the tightened stirrup leather, (wherein Margaret's foot was fast) severing the stirrup-leather) clean in two.
In a moment Margaret lay still upon the ground, her face and dress torn and stained and covered with blood and dust and grime, while Selim dashed away like mad, rushing this way and that, bucking, snorting and plunging wildly with the side-saddle dangling tantalizingly between his hind legs.
As Margaret lay there, Burr looked down upon her for an instant before jumping off his horse to go to her assistance. Then in a flash as it were he remembered where he had seen her before.
“By heavens,” he thought, “she is the very image of that unknown woman I saw transfigured by the fire in the Enchanted Clearing.”
VIII
The Beautiful Spy
She was good, as she was fair,
None! None on earth above her,
As pure in thought as angels are,