“Let that black be brought forward.”
It was too late to retreat, and Cæsar found himself confronted with a row of the rebel officers, before he knew what was uppermost in his thoughts. The others yielded the examination to the one who suggested it, and using all due deliberation, he proceeded accordingly--
“You know the prisoner?”
“I tink I ought,” returned the black, in a manner as sententious as his examiner’s.
“Did he give you the wig, when he threw it aside?”
“I don’t want’ em,” grumbled Cæsar; “got a berry good hair he’self.”
“Were you employed in carrying any letters or messages, while Captain Wharton was in your master’s house?”
“I do what a’ tell me,” returned the black.
“But what did they tell you to do?”
“Sometime a one ting--sometime anoder.”
“Enough,” said Colonel Singleton, with dignity; “you have the noble acknowledgment of a gentleman, what more can you obtain from this slave? Captain Wharton, you perceive the unfortunate impression against you? Have you other testimony to adduce?”
To Henry, there now remained but little hope; his confidence in his security was fast ebbing, but with an indefinite expectation of assistance from the loveliness of his sister, he fixed an earnest gaze on the pallid features of Frances. She arose, and with a tottering step moved towards the judges; the paleness of her cheek continued but for a moment, and gave place to a flush of fire, and with a light but firm tread, she stood before them. Raising her hand to her polished forehead, Frances threw aside her exuberant locks, and displayed a beauty and innocence to their view, that was unrivalled. The president shrouded his eyes for a moment, as if the wildly expressive eye and speaking countenance recalled the image of another. The movement was transient, and recovering himself proudly, he said, with an earnestness that betrayed his secret wishes--
“To you, then, your brother communicated his intention of paying your family a secret visit?”
“No!--no!” said Frances, pressing her hand on her brain, as if to collect her thoughts; “he told me nothing--we knew not of the visit until he arrived; but can it be necessary to explain to gallant men, that a child would incur hazard to meet his only parent, and that in times like these, and in a situation like ours.”
“But was this the first time? Did he never even talk of doing so before?” inquired the Colonel, leaning towards her with paternal interest.
“Certainly--certainly,” cried Frances, catching the expression of his own benevolent countenance. This is but the fourth of his visits.”
“I knew it!” exclaimed the veteran, rubbing his hands with delight; “an adventurous, warmhearted son--I warrant me, gentlemen, a fiery soldier in the field. In what disguises did he come?”
“In none, for none were then necessary; the royal troops covered the country, and gave him safe passage.”
“And was this the first of his visits, out of the uniform of his regiment?” asked the Colonel in a suppressed voice, avoiding the looks of his companions.
“Oh! the very first,” exclaimed the eager girl; “his first offence, I do assure you, if offence it be.”
“But you wrote him--you urged the visit; surely, young lady, you wished to see your brother?” added the impatient Colonel.
“That we wished it, and prayed for it, oh! how fervently we prayed for it, is true; but to have held communion with the royal army, would have endangered our father, and we dare not.”
“Did he leave the house until taken, or had he intercourse with any out of your own dwelling?”
“With none--not one, excepting our neighbour, the pedlar Birch.”
“With whom?” exclaimed the Colonel, turning pale, and shrinking as from the sting of an adder.
Dunwoodie groaned aloud, and striking his head with his hand, cried in piercing tones, “He is lost!” and rushed from the apartment.
“But Harvey Birch,” repeated Frances, gazing wildly at the door through which her lover had disappeared.
“Harvey Birch!” echoed all the judges. The two immoveable members of the court exchanged significant looks, and threw many an inquisitive glance at their prisoner.
“To you, gentlemen, it can be no new intelligence to hear that Harvey Birch is suspected of favouring the royal cause,” said Henry, again advancing before his judges; “for he has already been condemned by your tribunals to the fate that I now see awaits myself. I will, therefore, explain, that it was by his assistance that I procured the disguise, and passed your picquets; but, to my dying moment, and with my dying breath, I will avow, that my intentions were as pure as the innocent being before you.”
“Captain Wharton,” said the president solemnly, “the enemies of American liberty have made mighty and subtle efforts to overthrow our power. A more dangerous man for his means and education, is not ranked among our foes, than this pedlar of West-Chester. He is a spy--artful--delusive and penetrating, beyond the abilities of any of his class. Sir Henry could not do better than to associate him with the officer in his next attempt.--He would have saved him Andre. Indeed, young man, this is a connexion that may prove fatal to you.”
The honest indignation that beamed on the countenance of the aged warrior as he spoke, was met by a satisfied look of perfect conviction on the part of his comrades.
“I have ruined him!” cried Frances, clasping her hands in terror; “do you desert us? then he is lost indeed.”
“Forbear!--lovely innocent--forbear!” cried the Colonel, with strong emotion; “you injure none, but distress us all.”
“Is it then such a crime to possess natural affection?” said Frances wildly; “would Washington--the noble----upright----impartial Washington, judge so harshly? delay but till Washington can hear his tale.”
“It is impossible,” said the president, covering his eyes, as if to hide her beauty from his view.
“Impossible! oh! but for a week suspend your judgment.---On my knees I entreat you; as you will expect mercy yourself, where no human power can avail you, give him but a day.”
“It is impossible,” repeated the Colonel, in a voice that was nearly choked; “our orders are peremptory, and too long delay has been given already.”
He turned from the kneeling suppliant, but could not, or would not, extricate the hand that she grasped with frenzied fervour.
“Remand your prisoner,” said one of the judges, to the officer who was in charge of Henry. “Colonel Singleton. shall we withdraw?”
“Singleton! Singleton!” echoed Frances, “then you are a father, and know how to pity a father’s woes; you cannot, will not, wound a heart that is now nearly crushed. Hear me, Colonel Singleton; as God will listen to your dying prayers, hear me, and spare my brother.”
“Remove her,” said the Colonel, gently endeavouring to extricate his hand; but there were none who appeared disposed to obey. Frances eagerly strove to read the expression of his averted face, and resisted all his efforts to retire.
“Colonel Singleton! how lately was your own son in suffering and in danger? under the roof of my father he was cherished---under my father’s roof he found shelter and protection. Oh! suppose that son the pride of your age, the solace and protector of your orphan children, and then pronounce my brother guilty if you dare.”
“What right has Heath to make an executioner of me!” exclaimed the veteran fiercely, rising with a face flushed like fire, and every vein and artery swollen with suppressed emotion. “But I forget myself--come gentlemen, let us mount, our painful duty must be done.”
“Mount not!--go not!” shrieked Frances; “can you tear a son from his parent? a brother from his sister, so coldly? Is this the cause I have so ardently loved? Are these the men that I have been taught to reverence? But you relent, you do hear me, you will pity and forgive.”
“Lead on, gentlemen,” motioning towards the door, erecting himself into an air of military grandeur, in the vain hope of quieting
his feelings.
“Lead not on, but hear me,” cried Frances, grasping his hand convulsively; “Colonel Singleton you are a father!---pity---mercy---mercy. for the son---mercy for the daughter! Yes---you had a daughter. On this bosom she poured out her last breath; these hands closed her eyes; these very hands, that are now clasped in prayer, did those offices for her, that you now condemn my poor, poor brother to require.”
One mighty emotion the veteran struggled with and quelled, but with a groan that shook his whole frame. He even looked around in conscious pride at his victory; but a second burst of feeling conquered.---His head, white with the frost of seventy winters, sunk upon the shoulder of the frantic suppliant. The sword that had been his companion in so many fields of blood, dropped from his nerveless hand, and as he cried---
“May God bless you for the deed!” he wept aloud.
Long and violent was the indulgence that Colonel Singleton yielded to his feelings. On recovering, he gave the senseless Frances into the arms of her aunt, and turning with an air of fortitude to his comrades, he said--
“Still, gentlemen, we have our duty as officers to discharge;--our feelings as men may be indulged hereafter. What is your pleasure with the prisoner?”
One of the judges placed in his hand a written sentence that he had prepared, while the Colonel was engaged with Frances, and declared it to be the opinion of himself and his companion.
It briefly stated, that Henry Wharton had been detected in passing the lines of the American army as a spy, and in disguise. That, thereby, according to the laws of war, he was liable to suffer death, and that this court adjudged him to the penalty--ordering him to be executed, by hanging, before nine o’clock on the following morning.
It was not usual to inflict capital punishments even on the enemy, without referring the case to the Commander-in-Chief, for his approbation; or, in his absence, to the officer commanding for the time being. But, as Washington held his headquarters at New-Windsor, on the western bank of the Hudson, sufficient time was yet before them to receive his answer.
“This is short notice,” said the veteran, holding the pen in his hand, in a suspense that had no object; “not a day to fit one so young for heaven?”
“The royal officers gave Hale but an hour,” returned his comrade; “we have extended the usual time. But Washington has the power to extend it, or to pardon.”
“Then to Washington will I go,” cried the Colonel, returning the paper with his signature, “and if the services of an old man like me, or that brave boy of mine, entitle me to his ear, I will yet save the youth.”
So saying, he departed, full of his generous intentions in favour of Henry Wharton.
The sentence was communicated with proper tenderness to the prisoner; and after giving a few necessary instructions to the officer in command, and despatching a courier to head-quarters with their report, the remaining judges mounted, and rode to their own quarters, with the same unmoved exterior, but with the same dispassionate integrity, they had maintained throughout the trial.
CHAPTER XI.
“Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,
But he must die to-morrow?”
Measure for Measure
A few hours were passed by the condemned prisoner, after his sentence was received, in the bosom of his family. Mr. Wharton wept in hopeless despondency over the untimely fate of his son, and Frances, after recovering from her insensibility, experienced an anguish of feeling to which the bitterness of death itself would have been comparatively light. Miss Peyton alone retained a vestige of hope, or presence of mind to suggest whamight be proper to be done under their circumt stances. The comparative composure of the good spinster in no degree arose from any want of interest in the welfare of her nephew, but was founded in a kind of instinctive dependence on the character of Washington. He was a native of the same colony with herself, and although his early military services, and her frequent visits to the family of her sister, and subsequent establishment at its head, had prevented their ever meeting, still she was familiar with his domestic virtues, and well knew that the rigid inflexibility for which his public acts were distinguished, formed no part of his reputation in private life. He was known in Virginia as a consistent but just and lenient master, and the maiden felt a kind of pride in associating in her mind, her countryman with the man who led the armies, and in a great measure, controlled the destinies of America. She knew that Henry was innocent of the crime for which he was condemned to suffer, and with that kind of simple faith, that is ever to be found in the most ingenuous and innocent characters, could not conceive of those constructions and interpretations of law, that inflicted punishment without the actual existence of crime. But even her confiding hopes were doomed to meet with a speedy termination. Towards noon, a regiment that was quartered on the banks of the river, moved up to the ground in front of the house that held our heroine and her family, and deliberately pitched their tents with the avowed intention of remaining until the following morning, to give solemnity and impression to the execution of a British spy.
Dunwoodie had performed all that was required of him by his orders, and was at liberty to retrace his steps to his expecting troops, who were impatiently awaiting his return to be led against a detachment of the enemy, that was known to be slowly moving up the banks of the river, to cover a party of foragers in their rear. He was accompanied by a small party of Lawton’s troop, under the expectation of their testimony being required to convict the prisoner, and Mason, the lieutenant, was in command. But the confession of Capt. Wharton had removed the necessity of examining any witnesses on behalf of the people. The Major, from an unwillingness to encounter the distress of Henry’s friends, and a dread of trusting himself within its influence, had spent the time we have mentioned, in walking by himself, in keen anxiety, at a short distance from the dwelling. Like Miss Peyton, he had some reliance on the mercy of Washington, although moments of terrific doubt ned despondency were continually crossing his mind. To him the rules of service were familiar, and he was more accustomed to consider his general in the capacity of a ruler, than as exhibiting the characteristics of the individual. A dreadful instance had too recently occurred, which fully proved that Washington was above the weakness of sparing another in mercy to himself. While pacing with hurried steps through the orchard, labouring under these constantly recurring doubts, enlivened by transient rays of hope, Mason approached him, accoutred completely for the saddle.
“Thinking you might have forgotten the news brought this morning from below, sir, I have taken the liberty to order the detachment under arms,” said the Lieutenant, very coolly, cutting down the mullen tops with his sheathed sabre that grew within his reach.
“What news?” cried the Major, starting.
“Only that John Bull is out in West-Chester. with a train of wagons, which, if he fills, will compel us to retire through these cursed hills, in search of provender. These greedy Englishmen are so shut up on York island, that when they do venture out, they seldom leave straw enough to furnish the bed of a yankee heiress.”
“Where did the express leave them, did you say? The intelligence has entirely escaped my memory.”
“On the heights above Sing-Sing,” returned the Lieutenant, with no little amazement. “The road below looks like a hay-market, and all the swine are sighing forth their lamentations, as the corn passes them towards Kingsbridge. George Singleton’s orderly, who brought up the tidings, says that our horses were holding consultation if they should not go down without their riders, and eat another meal, for it is questionable with them whether they can get a full stomach again. If they are suffered to get back with their plunder, we shall not be able to find a piece of pork, at Christmas, fat enough to fry itself.”
“Peace, with all this nonsense of Singleton’s orderly, Mr. Mason,” cried Dunwoodie, impatiently; “let him learn to wait the orders of his superiors.”
“I beg pardon in his name, Major Dunwoodie,” said the subaltern; �
��but like myself, he was in error. We both thought it was the order of General Heath, to attack and molest the enemy whenever he ventured out of his nest.”
“Recollect yourself, Lieutenant Mason,” said the Major, fiercely, “or I may have to teach you that your orders pass through me.”
“I know it, Major Dunwoodie--I know it,” said Mason, with a look of reproach; “and I am sorry that your memory is so bad, as to forget that I I never have yet hesitated to obey them.”
“Forgive me, Mason,” cried Dunwoodie, taking both his hands, “I do know you for a brave and obedient soldier; forget my humour. But this business--Had you ever a friend?”
“Nay, nay,” interrupted the Lieutenant, “forgive me and my honest zeal. I knew of the orders, and was fearful that censure might fall on my officer. But remain, and let a man breathe a syllable against the corps, and every sword will start from the scabbard of itself--besides they are still moving up, and it is a long road from Croton to Kingsbridge. Happen what may, I see plainly that we shall be on their heels, before they are housed again.”
“Oh! that the courier was returned from headquarters,” exclaimed Dunwoodie. “This suspense is insupportable.”
“You have your wish,” cried Mason; “here he is coming at the moment, and riding like the bearer of good news--God send it may be so; for I can’t say that I particularly like, myself, to see a brave young fellow dancing upon nothing.”
Dunwoodie heard but very little of this feeling declaration; for, ere half of it was uttered, he had leaped the fence and stood before the messenger
“What news have you?” cried the Major, the moment that the soldier stopped his horse.
“Good!” exclaimed the man; and feeling no hesitation to entrust an officer so well known as Major Dunwoodie, he placed the paper in his hands, as he added, “But you can read it, sir, for yourself.”
The Spy, Volume 2 Page 14