Mr. Arnold: A romance of the RevolutionLynde, Francis
General
Mr. Arnold: A romance of the Revolution
Lynde, Francis
Arnold, Benedict, 1741-1801 -- Fiction
It was not a very social meal, that supper in Pettus’s hut before the
cheerful open fire--fire being the one thing unstinted in that starving
camp. My thoughts were busy with the meshings of the net into which I
had stumbled; and as for Jack, I think he must have been eager to get
me out of the way before Seytoun’s second should call. At any rate,
it was he who reminded me of Melton’s hint that I would be expected
at General Washington’s headquarters, and I do him no more than fair
justice when I say that he sped the parting guest quite as heartily as
he had welcomed the coming.
So it came about that it was still early when I set out in the
starlight for the low tilt-eaved farm-house a half-mile farther up the
road, passing on the way the field where poor Major André had paid his
debt and where he now slept in his shallow grave; passing also, a scant
hundred yards from the great chief’s headquarters, the fortress-like
stone house where André had heard his sentence and spent his last night
upon earth.
II
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT
I FOUND Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton waiting for me in that room
of the De Windt house which served as an outer office in the
commander-in-chief’s suite. It was my first visit to our army’s brain
and nerve center since the execution of Major André, and I saw, in the
posting of double sentries and by the many times I was halted before I
could come to the door of Mr. Hamilton’s room, one of the consequences
of Arnold’s treason. Our general was no longer free to go and come and
be approached as simply as he had been in former times.
Mr. Hamilton’s greeting was as pleasant as Melton’s had been, though
few ever saw him otherwise than cordial and suave. A slender fine-faced
stripling, with the deep-welled eyes, short upper lip and sensitive
mouth of his French mother, a man but little, if any, older than I, he
had the manner of a true gentleman gently bred, and few as were his
years, he carried a wise head on his shoulders.
“Good evening, Captain Page. Come in and stretch your legs before
my fire,” he said; “you have the first requisite of a good soldier,
Captain; you come promptly when you are called.”
At first I thought he was rebuking me gently because I had stopped
to sup with Jack before reporting myself, but a quick glance at his
smiling eyes showed me that I was wrong. Yet without that explanation I
was left in the dark as to his meaning.
“A soldier’s call is apt to be an order, Mr. Hamilton,” I said, giving
him the lead again.
“So was yours,” he announced. “But we scarcely looked for you to come
before midnight, ride as you would.”
“I was sent for?” I asked.
“Surely; didn’t you know it?”
“I did not. I left Salem at daybreak, with two days’ leave from Colonel
Baylor.”
“In that case,” he said reflectively, “you should have met Halkett on
the road, riding with letters to you and to Colonel Baylor.”
“I did not come by the main road to King’s Ferry. I had agreed to meet
Lieutenant Pettus at Nyack, and----”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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