Rival Caesars

by Desmond Dilg

  Indeed, all through life he was something of a Stoic. Whenever he met the inevitable, he faced it with unvanquishable stolidity and iron fortitude. He was one of those rare, strong leonine characters, so seldom seen in real life. If you tore out his heart with red hot pincers, he would scarcely utter a solitary groan, but die in silence, like a wolf, and mayhap gulping his blood into your face.

  The forced marriage of Margaret made him suffer all the mental agonies that it is possible for a man in love to suffer and not go mad.

  She wrote to him:

  O, Aaron, forgive me, forgive me. They have given me to another. I have lost you forever. By force and threats my father compelled me to marry Captain Coglan. * * * The marriage took place on the 28th of February, 1777. * * * Tomorrow I sail for Ireland in Captain Kidd's packet ship. * * * Sorrow and anger has almost driven me off my head. I am weak and sick and the doctor is constantly calling to see me. I hardly know what to do or how to think. All night long continually I cry in my agony and despair, O God! O God! O God!

  But in spite of them all dear Aaron, I love you still. I will love you forever. And if there is a world beyond death I will also love you there. I will clasp you to my bosom forever and forever. * * *

  Aaron Burr sat in his tent thinking as he read. Thus thought he:

  “Margaret, you and I have met in some former life, that I am convinced, I also feel we shall meet again at some future time, either in this life or in another.

  “I fell in love with you Margaret when first I saw you and I knew not the reason, and when in your face I afterwards recognized the shadow-marks of that transfigured woman in the Northern pine forest I knew there was a something more than human that drew us to one another. Ah! Is there some hidden essence in our lives that first attracts and binds together only to thereafter hurl us malevolently apart?

  “If I had only 50,000 men tonight, I would storm New York—make another Troy of it—to rescue the woman I love. I would leave it a smoldering heap of ashes for Margaret's sake.

  “But my Strength is not equal to my Conception. That's my trouble; want of Power, not want of Will.

  “I feel myself as helpless as an eagle in an iron-barred cage. Why is this? Am I a man born out of time or a spirit in hell? Am I a free man or a captive soul?”

  X

  The Burning of the Farm

  They play with lances,

  And are proud and terrible,

  Marching in the moonlight

  With fierce blue eyes.

  And the days and the years rolled on.

  “Who goes there? Who goes there? Who goes there?”

  CRACK!

  In rapid succession the three challenges rang out on the midnight air swiftly followed by the sharp, angry report of a heavy rifle.

  The sentry had suddenly seen the figure of a man cautiously emerging from out the surrounding mist. Thereupon he shouted the regulation challenges as rapidly as his tongue could repeat them, and then, without waiting for any reply fired point blank. “This time I will be on the safe side,” he thought.

  The man approaching him had came from the direction of the British lines.

  The sentry, who was soaking wet and standing under the shadow of a great oak tree, had been urged to unusual vigilance of late by his superior officers, under special instructions from General McDougall. Now the sentry in his own mind had determined to be “vigilant.”

  As soon as the report of the rifle died away a voice, a strong, angry voice, came to him from the gloom, saying:

  “You infernal damned idiot, you’ve shot your own commanding officer.”

  Now the sentinel was a big raw-boned backwoods-man, the veteran of quite a score of Indian wars. He had taken part in the capture of Havana (ten years before) and was also with Wolfe on the Heights of Abraham. His name was Holroyd. He was a strange character, a sort of military privateer, a soldier of fortune, who loved war for war's sake—also for the loot (or possibilities of loot) that it brought him. If there had been no war of Independence he would most likely have been taking part in some frontier raid or Mexican filibustering expedition. His whole life had been spent amid battle and blood and hardship, yet he was a strong, healthy, clear-headed man. His grandfather had been one of Cromwell's troopers and the probability is that his ancestors came originally over the North Sea in a Viking cruise, centuries ago in search of booty along the coast of England.

  He had strong opinions upon what is to good fighting men the all-absorbing question of “Loot.” On this subject he was wont to wax quite eloquent around the bivouac fires. Thus he would say.:

  “Why do men go to war? Is it not in some way to better their condition. All these new fangled notions that men fight for other things than their own personal advantage is pure delusion. It is the solid things of life that men are ever after, though some of them haven’t the courage to admit it. What is love of country but love of its good things?

  “Now what I desire to know is this: If we want to shoot a man in war and he badly wants to shoot us, why should we not take his property (if we can) as well as his life? Isn’t that the way men win a ‘fatherland’ first? Don’t they fight and conquer the original owners and then take the land? Very well then, what is the good of being a soldier, of risking your life, and being a brave man in battle, if you cannot seize from your beaten enemy, what your greater valor wins and what you stand badly in need of?”

  Here Holroyd would look down ruefully upon patched boots of rawhide and torn breeches (from which his great hairy knees protruded) and continued:

  “These old womanish rules about 'no loot' are the ruin of an army, sir. If the soldier hasn't anything material to gain he naturally enough loses his enthusiasm. Fame and glory are very nice, but so is gold and silver and a new pair of breeches now and then. There is magic in war-won gold, for a man knows he has given the highest possible price for it. Hasn’t he risked his life where the bullets whistle past his ears and whizzing shells explode under his horse's tail? I am for loot, my lads, beautiful loot. It's the finest thing in the world. I’d storm the gates of hell for loot. A soldier is like any other man. He must make his business pay, else he gives it up. And if the soldier gives up, who is to defend the country from the ‘other fellow' who comes along, from a far country also on the lookout for spoil?

  “Now these farmers all around this camp are mostly wealthy old Tories, who don’t seem to believe in ‘America for the Americans.’ They are either fighting against us openly like the De Lanceys or spying upon us secretly like the Wombwells. And they have plenty to eat and good houses to cover them, while here we are marched about like a lot of born fools, all in rags and tatters, half starved, and sleeping in the snow. Now why should we not loot them? Shouldn’t the fighting man be more considered?”

  * * * * *

  Now when Holroyd heard the voice through the mist he immediately knew whom he had shot at.

  “Why, it's little Burr, the Colonel,” he thought as he hammered home another bullet. “I hope I haven’t hurt him though. However he brought it on himself. He is always prowling about the posts at night. Indeed I often wonder when he sleeps. I always said he would get a bullet some night, but I never thought he would get it from me. He's a brave, gentlemanly little cuss, but too much of a disciplinarian. We can’t get a wink of sleep when he's around.”

  “Good God, Colonel, I hope I haven’t done for you,” said Holroyd as he walked hastily up to where Burr lay, bleeding from a bullet wound in the foot. “I am very sorry Colonel that I shot at you, but sorrier still I did not miss you. I should never have fired nohow if I had thought it was you, or any of our own men. I really believed it was a Tory spy, sneaking around to knife me in the back. Are you much hurt, Colonel?”

  “No, I am only lamed,” replied Colonel Aaron Burr, without a trace of anger in his tone. You fired too low or you would have killed me, Holroyd. Your bullet has gone through my right foot. It is bleeding profusely. Come and pull off my boot and help bandage the wound. Why i
n the name of heaven did you fire so quick?”

  Holroyd made the best excuse he could, for he was really sorry, stating that only three nights before he had been fired at by a British scout from the identical place where Burr lay. Then he bound up the ugly wound most skillfully. .

  By this time the piquet, alarmed at the shot, arrived to see what was the matter.

  Soon four pair of strong arms lifted their Colonel out of the frosty grass and carried him to the picket tent. The tent was neatly hidden from observation in a clump of pine trees.

  A cheerful fire of logs burned in a hollow. Over it hung from a branch, a large three-legged iron pot in which potatoes, a leg of pork, and half a sheep were stewing. The food had been procured “in the usual way” by Holroyd who among his other military accomplishments was a “splendid forager.”

  The fire was so situated that the glare thereof could not be seen from the enemy’s lines.

  Burr decided that he would be taken over to the nearest farm. Led by Holroyd the soldiers made a litter of intertwined branches to carry their Colonel upon.

  In about twenty minutes, with Burr on their shoulders, they reached the vicinity of the farm. But they did not approach too close. They saw that the old homestead was in a state of tumult and confusion.

  From the windows lights shone and flitted intermittently. Evidently something unusual was happening. Under the direction of Burr the four soldiers crept towards the farm cautiously, feeling their way as it were, each man with his rifle in his hand ready for instant use.

  As they got closer they could hear the sound of angry voices, the lowing of disturbed cattle, the barking of dogs, the crying of children, and the raucous cackle of geese and barnyard fowls. Horses neighed, men shouted, and women shrieked.

  “It is a British patrol looting Captain Delafield's farm, we must move very cautiously as they are probably in force,” said Burr to Holroyd. “Carry me as near as you can without discovering ourselves. Then put me down and get your rifles ready. We'll give them a fight for it as soon as we get our bearings and ascertain how many they are.”

  So they carried him behind a tall black stump within a hundred yards of the barn. Then under his instructions they stretched themselves out on their bellies in the long wet grass and waited.

  The officer in command of the looting party could now be distinctly heard giving instructions to his men.

  “Put your own saddle on that black stallion there, Tom . . he is a fine beast. . . . Let your own horse go . . . he is about played out. . . . Then go and help Corporal McDermot drive off those cattle. . . . They'll make first-class Christmas beef for us. . . . Tell Sergeant Joubert to send two men for that big bay gelding and the three thoroughbred mares. . . . You, Ebenezer, catch that iron-gray colt and put him in the spring cart. . . . Then load up with all the more valuable stuff and move off as quickly as you can. Don't forget those two casks of whiskey and that box of books. . . . Sergeant Dalton send one of the big wagons up here and the other to the barn. . . . put all the grain you can find in one and meat stuffs in the other. Get those squealing hogs killed also, and thrown in (mind you bleed them well). . . . Hurry up now my lads, we hav’nt a moment to spare. Those damned rebels may be here at any moment. We're alongside of their lines. I'm sure they can't be far away. Hurry up, my lads, hurry up, or we'll lose everything, Christmas beef, whiskey and all—and have a fight into the bargain.”

  The scene before Burr and his four men was most interesting. The farm was being systematically looted by the enemy. Soldiers with guns in their hands were moving from room to room searching for valuables. Some were tearing open mattresses and pillows seeking for hidden money. Some were digging up the floors, smashing boxes, and chests of drawers. Some were breaking open safes and cupboards in search of food. Some were chopping out the wainscots, or peering up the chimney or creeping among the blackened rafters, where the smoked hams and dried beef hung.

  Outside some of the redcoats were standing on guard, some were chasing fowls, turkeys, geese, etc., or strapping them to their saddles. The troop horses seemed quite accustomed to all this. Evidently they were old to the business. They stood and coolly munched bundles of oaten forage while the wings of turkeys and geese flapped among their legs.

  Quickly the wagons were loaded with corn and oats, wheat and potatoes, dead calves, dead hogs, dead sheep, dried fruit, hams, bacon, etc., etc., and moved off up the road under escort.

  “We'll have a jolly good feast this Christmas, anyhow,” said one soldier to another as he knocked the top off a long necked wine bottle and drank heartily.

  “Yes,” replied the other, “Christmas comes but once a year and this is the way to get good cheer. Let us enjoy life I say while we can. What's the use of moping around and looking glum?”

  “Aye,” said the first speaker as he finished the bottle. This is a real generous way to carry off the enemy’s 'good things' and feast thereon. It is a good plan, too, for people can’t fight if they have nothing to eat. It's the belly that fights. Hurrah, I say for Christmas and jolly good cheer.”

  Meanwhile, under a guard of four men with fixed bayonets, the women and children had been removed from the house to the barn. They consisted of two noble-looking matrons, several boys and four young girls, one of whom nursed a baby boy.

  In the midst of the main body of raiders two male prisoners stood handcuffed together.

  The men on guard were busy eating cakes, which had been found in the cupboards. Some were also examining with much curiosity, a number of newly captured American muskets, whose very ingenious “sights” were made of bone and whose stocks were elaborately lashed with strips of white horse-hide.

  After everything had been loaded up and carted or carried away, after the last wagon had moved off, loaded with vegetables and fowls (dead and alive) with whip cracks and shouts from the drivers, then again the harsh cold tones of the Captain in command rang out: (He was an American and his name was De Lancey.)

  “Sergeant Major,” he said, “see that the house and barns and outhouses are immediately set on fire and burned down.”

  During all this scene Burr lay behind the stump alongside of his four men. He saw the madness of making a direct attack with four guns against at least 200. So he and his men lay still waiting for a favorable opening to attack the Farm Burners.

  “Men,” said Burr, “keep silent, our chance will come directly. See that your priming is good and when most of them have moved off let us give battle to the rearguard. We will take them by surprise and shoot as many as we can. They will not see us in the dark and we will be able to easily see them, as soon as they set fire to the farm. They will imagine we are a large party and fly. Then we can pour it into them.”

  Presently a burly redcoat, whom the Sergeant designated “Patrick O'Connel” stood up on one of the window sills of the farm house. Balancing himself carefully with his left hand, he held a blazing torch (made of wood, and paper from an old family bible) in his right hand. Reaching up he applied the torch to a heap of dry wood and other combustibles made of broken tables, splintered cradles, beds, chairs, etc., previously collected in the frame of an upper window.

  Gradually the little spark of red flame spread and grew bigger and bigger. The boards and flooring and ceiling hissed and crackled and roared in the hot flames.

  Soon the house and barns became a whirling, blazing furnace, sending sheets of forked flame aloft like great streaks and spears of swaying gold, which shone, and reflected upon the long cruel rows of naked bayonets, with a lurid unearthly glitter. Outhouses and haystacks were all wrapped in the crimson shroud, while some of the soldiers wheeled wagons and carriages (that could not be taken away) into the fiery roaring all consuming cauldron.

  Everything burned. Even the iron melted in the intense heat, and chimneys and walls fell in.

  “That's the way to lesson those rebel farmers as to the meaning of rebellion.”

  Thus spoke Captain De Lancey to his lieutenant, as the two British off
icers stood alongside the oaken draw-bucket by the well, watching in admiring wonder the flaming farmstead.

  “They seem somehow to imagine,” continued the Captain, “that a civil war can be conducted according to the rules of an old-maids' card-game, but such things as this ought to teach them different. All is fair in love and war, and the heaviest blow that can be dealt to an enemy by land or by sea is (next to taking his life) the utter destruction of his property.”

  Captain De Lancey was the son of Chief Justice De Lancey, and a relative by blood and marriage of the Clintons and Livingstons. The De Lanceys were of Norman and (bar-sinister) royal descent, and like the Livingstons and Clintons were semi-nobles of the “Realm.” Indeed, De Lancey’s brother, the earl of Abingdon, was in the English House of Lords, as were also certain of the Clintons and Livingstons. Baron Livingston of Columbia county, N.Y., was a direct descendant of one of Mary Queen of Scots' famous “Five Marys.”

  When the war ended the immense landed estates of the De Lanceys were confiscated by Act of Congress. These lands were valued at more than a million dollars.

  “But, how about the women folk? I feel sorry for the poor things. Look at them, weeping over there as if their very hearts would break, while the children clap their hands to see the home that they were perhaps born in, flame up.” Thus said Lieutenant Morris to his Captain.