In Hostile Red Part 32

We admitted with the greatest reluctance that the laws of war would permit it.

"Still, it was but a mad prank," said Sir William, "and you have given yourselves up when you might have gone away. I cannot see of what avail it would be to the British cause, to me, or to any one to hang you. I like you both, and you, Lieutenant Chester, as you call yourself, and as I suppose you are, threw that Hessian colonel into the street for me so handsomely that I must ever be in your debt, and I don't suppose that you had anything to do with the attempt of that villian, Wildfoot; moreover, it seems that you are quite capable of hanging yourselves in due time. I will spare the gallows. But I wish you were Englishmen, and not Americans."

I felt as if the rope were slipping off our necks when Sir William spoke these words, and my spirits rose with most astonishing swiftness. I must say that Sir William Howe, though a slothful man and a poor general, was kind of heart sometimes, and I have never liked to hear people speak ill of him.

"Your case," he said, "is likely to be a source of mighty gossip in this town; but I shall not leave you here long to enjoy your honors. We exchange for Lieutenant Belfort and some prisoners who are in the hands of the rebels. You will be included in the exchange, and you will leave Philadelphia soon. You need not thank me. In truth, I ought to hang you as spies; but I am curious to know what act of folly you will commit next."

I am confident that Sir William in reality liked us greatly, for he was fond of adventure. Perhaps that was the reason he was not a better general.

"I shall have to place you under guard," said Sir William, calling an aide, "and if ever this war ends and we are alive then, I should like to see you both in England, and show you off as the finest pair of rascals that ever deserved to be hanged and were not."

"It appears to me that we came out of that matter easily," said Marcel, as we left the room.

We remained for a while in Philadelphia as prisoners of the British, and, to our great amazement and equal pleasure, found ourselves heroes with the men who had been our comrades there for a brief s.p.a.ce. They considered it the finest and boldest adventure of which they had heard, and Marcel's new cousin, Rupert Harding, was not last in his appreciation.

"I think that I shall prefer you to the real cousin, when I see him,"

said Harding to Marcel, "and I shall always claim the kinship."

We parted from them with sincere regret when Sir Henry Clinton, who, succeeding Sir William Howe in the chief command, saw no reason to change the latter's plan in this matter, sent us to the American army in exchange for Belfort and others.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE--_George Washington's Mercy_

"Bob," said Marcel, as we rode under escort towards the American army, "the British have dealt handsomely with us,--we have no right to complain of Sir William Howe,--but how about the Americans?"

"The Americans are our countrymen."

"Which proves nothing. When I am at fault, I would rather receive the sentence of my official enemy than that of my official friend."

"Don't talk of it," I replied. "We have fared so well in the first four acts of this play that our luck cannot change consistently in the fifth and last."

"Yet I would there were no fifth," he grumbled. I said nothing more, wishing to dismiss the subject from my mind. But I had been thinking of it before Marcel spoke, and his words chimed so well with my own thoughts that my apprehensions grew. The subject would not depart merely because I ordered it to do so. We had left our army without leave.

Practically, we were deserters, and General Washington, as all the world knows, was a severe man where a question of military discipline was concerned.

"But I am not sorry I went," I said aloud. I was thinking of Mary Desmond and that thrilling night ride of ours when the hoof-beats of my horse rang side by side with the hoof-beats of hers. I remembered the flush on her face and the light in her eye.

"I am not sorry either," said Marcel, aloud. Of what he was thinking I do not know. Perhaps that same wild strain in his blood which had led us into the adventure was speaking. Yet I should, and shall be, the last man in the world to blame him for it.

It was a glorious day. The wind blew, the gra.s.s waved, and the sun shone. A young man could not remain unhappy long over misfortunes yet unfelt. My memories were pleasant and so were my comrades. A half dozen other American officers, to be exchanged for an equal number of the enemy, accompanied us, and the two British officers in charge of the escort, of whom Catron was one, were men of wit, manners, and friendly temper. We made a lively party and found one another agreeable. We had always possessed the liking of Catron, but in truth we now seemed to have his unbounded admiration as well.

"Ta-ra-ra, ta-ra-ra," rang the British bugle through the forest, announcing our approach to the American army. The journey had been all too fast. I never thought that I would part from an enemy with so much reluctance, and I became grave again when the first American sentinel stopped us.

Our mission was explained, and an officer came and attended to the exchange. We bade our friends the British, good-bye, and then, according to orders, walked towards headquarters for instructions. As we pa.s.sed down one of the camp streets we heard a cry of surprise, and looking about saw Sergeant Pritchard to whom we had once bade a good-bye that he thought would be eternal.

We dropped back a little behind the others.

"Sergeant Pritchard," said Marcel, "you owe me a dinner, but as provisions are scarce in the American camp I will not collect it."

This was generous of Marcel, but I suspect that the true cause was his unwillingness to dine in state with a sergeant.

"I reported that you had taken the places of the Englishmen and gone to Philadelphia," replied the good sergeant. "He made no comment in my presence, and I know not what he said to the general about it. Nor do I know what will come of the matter."

Then he shook his head gloomily.

"General Washington should behave as handsomely as Sir William Howe,"

said Marcel, and I was quite sure that it was General Washington's duty to do so.

I acted as spokesman, and laid the case before our colonel, concealing nothing save my ride with Mary Desmond. He was a middle-aged man, amiable, and he liked us. In truth, both us had been fortunate enough to receive his praise for good service in action, but he could see no mitigating circ.u.mstances.

"There is nothing to do but report the case to the commander-in-chief,"

he said. "I am sorry, for I esteem you two boys, and you have been of value."

His solemn, even despondent tone depressed us. We began to feel afraid of the future and to wonder what General Washington would say to us. Our period of suspense was not long, as within two hours we were summoned to appear before the commander-in-chief.

An aide led us to his headquarters, a small square log-house such as frontiersmen build for themselves. A sentinel was watching at the door, but we pa.s.sed in and stood before the general, who was alone writing at a table.

The aide withdrew to the further end of the room and left us standing there, watching the goose quill, held in the large muscular hand, as it travelled over the paper, writing perhaps the instructions for our own execution as deserters. I shall never forget the few minutes that we stood in that room hearing only the scratch of the quill on the paper. I have dreamed of them often, and have awakened to hear the rustle of the quill in my ears.

No one could feel frivolous or flippant in the presence of General Washington. The air was never very warm about him, and I have noticed that it is usually so with men of great mental powers and great responsibilities.

On went the goose quill. Scratch! Scratch! I hate the sound of a goose quill to this day. I looked at the silent aide, but his face gave no encouragement. I looked at Marcel, but he was looking at me for the same purpose, and neither was able to be a help to the other.

The general wiped the goose quill and put it away. Then he turned to us, and his face was as stern as any into which I ever looked. I saw no ray of mercy in those severe, blue eyes.

"Lieutenant Robert Chester?" he said to me. I bowed, and then Marcel bowed when his name, too, was called.

"You deserted, according to your own confession, to the enemy, and Sir William Howe, not thinking you of sufficient value, has sent you back to me."

I flushed at both the charge and the irony, and protested that we were not deserters, and had never meant to be. Moreover, we had sent word by Sergeant Pritchard of our intention. Then I begged him to let me repeat the whole story. He bowed slightly, and told me to proceed. I fear that I was disturbed somewhat by the steady gaze of those cold, blue eyes, which never left me, and I limped more than once in my narrative.

Whenever I did so, he made me go back and take up the loose thread. It was his way to be exact in all things.

"A likely tale! A likely tale!" he said, when I finished, "and does credit to your powers of narration. I shall not enter into a discussion of its truth or falsity; but even if true, you left without permission, the army to which you belonged and masqueraded as officers of the enemy.

It seems to me that you have succeeded in being false to both Americans and British, and I do not see how anything could be more serious, though you young gentlemen may choose to call it an adventure or a jest or a whim. Sirs, a great war is a deadly matter, and it is not to be won with jests!"

The blue eyes grew colder and sterner than ever. I wished to say something, but I could think of nothing that would avail, and I was silent. I fear that my lips trembled, not from fright, but at the rebuke. I know my comrade's did, and Philip Marcel, the gay and irrepressible cavalier, was wordless for once in his life.

"Take them to the guard-house, Mordaunt," said the commander-in-chief to the aide, "and we will have them disposed of to-morrow. See that they have no chance to escape. Nor shall they be permitted to send messages to any one."

Then he turned his cold face away, and began to write again. I think that the shock of this sudden and terrible sentence was taken from me by the flame of indignation that leaped up in my heart. We were no deserters, however foolish we had been, and however great the liberty we had taken! I felt that we did not deserve such a punishment. Both Marcel and I had served our country well, and to put us to death for this adventure, although it might come within the military law, was harsh, beyond all measure. I considered ourselves martyrs.

"Do not be afraid that we will try to escape," I burst out, "and if this is to be the reward of men who serve their country, no wonder that our cause is in such straits!"

He did not appear to notice us, but wrote calmly on, and the deadly scratching of the goose quill was unbroken. The aide beckoned to us, and we followed him from the room.

"I am sorry, very sorry," said Mordaunt, when we were outside, "and, in truth, I think that your sentence is far too severe."