Philip Winwood Part 13

"Neither were we represented in it when it sent armies to protect us from the French, and toward the cost of which 'tis right we should pay."

"We paid, in men and money both. And the armies were sent less for our protection than for the aggrandis.e.m.e.nt of England. She was fighting the French the world over; in America, as elsewhere, the only difference being that in America we helped her."

So 'twas disputed between many another pair of friends, between brothers, between fathers and sons, husbands and wives. I do not know of another civil war that made as many breaks in families. Meanwhile, the local authorities--those of local election, not of royal appointment--were yet outwardly noncommittal. When Colonel Washington, the general-in-chief appointed by the congress of the colonies at Philadelphia, was to pa.s.s through New York on his way to Cambridge, where the New England rebels were surrounding the king's troops in Boston, it was known that Governor Tryon would arrive from England about the same time. Our authorities, rather than seem to favour one side, sent a committee to New Jersey to meet the rebel commander and escort him through the town, and immediately thereafter paid a similar attention to the royal governor. One of those who had what they considered the honour of riding behind Mr. Washington a part of his way (he came accompanied by a troop of horse from Philadelphia, and made a fine, commanding figure, I grant) was Philip Winwood. When he returned from Kingsbridge, I, pretending I had not gone out of my way to see the rebel generalissimo pa.s.s, met him with a smile, as if to make a joke of all the rebel preparations:

"Well," says I, "what manner of hero is your ill.u.s.trious chief? A very Julius Caesar, I make no doubt."

"A grave and modest gentleman," says Phil, "and worthy of all the admiration you used to have for him when we would talk of the French War. I remember you would say he was equal to all the regular English officers together; and how you declared Governor Shirley was a fool for not giving him a king's commission."

"Well," said I, "'tis a thousand to one, that if Colonel Washington hadn't been disappointed of a king's commission, he wouldn't now be leader of the king's enemies." I knew I had no warrant the slightest for attributing Mr. Washington's patriotism to such a petty motive as a long-cherished resentment of royal neglect; and years afterward, in London, I was to chastise an equally reckless speaker for a similar slander; but I was young and partisan, and being nettled by the reminder of my inconsistency, spoke to irritate.

"That is a lie!" said Phil, quietly, looking me straight in the face.

Such a word from Philip made me stare in amazement; but it did not improve my temper, or incline me to acknowledge the injustice I had uttered. My face burned, my fingers clenched. But it was Philip that had spoken; and a thing or two flashed into my mind in the pause; and, controlling myself, I let out a long breath, opened my fists, and, with the best intentions in the world, and with the quietest voice, gave him a blow far more severe than a blow of the fist had been.

"I will take that from you, Phil," said I: "G.o.d knows, your stand in this rebellion has caused you enough unhappiness."

He winced, and sent me a startled look, stung at my alluding to the estrangement of his wife. I know not whether he took it as a taunt from so dear a friend, or whether the mere mention of so delicate a sorrow was too much for him; but his face twitched, and he gave a swallow, and was hard put to it to hold back the tears.

"Forgive me," I said, stricken to the heart at sight of this. "I am your friend always, Phil." I put a hand upon his shoulder, and his face turned to a kindly expression of pardon, a little short of the smile he dared not yet trust himself to attempt.

Margaret's demeanour to him, indeed, had not shown the smallest softening. But to the rest of the world, after the immediate effects of that Sunday scene had worn off, she seemed vastly more sparkling and fascinating than ever before: whether she was really so, and of intention, or whether the appearance was from contrast with her treatment of Philip, I dare not say. But the impression was Philip's, I think, as well as every one's else; and infinitely it multiplied the sorrow of which he would not speak, but which his countenance could not conceal. When the news of the affair at Bunker's Hill was discussed at the supper-table one evening in June, I being present, and Margaret heard how bravely the British charged the third and successful time up to the rebel works, after being hurled back twice by a very h.e.l.l of musketry, she dropped her fork, and clapped her hands, crying:

"Bravo, bravo! 'Tis such men that grow in England. I could love every one of 'em!"

"Brave men, I allow," said Philip; "but as for their victory, 'twas but a technical one, if accounts be true. Their loss was greater than ours; and the fight proved that Americans can stand before British regulars."

Margaret paid no more notice than if Philip had not spoken--'twas her practice now to ignore his speeches not directed to herself alone--and when he had done, she said, blithely, to one of the young De Lanceys, who was a guest:

"And so they drove the Yankees out! And what then, cousin?"

"Why, that was all. But as for the men that grow in England, you'll find some of us grown in America quite as ready to fight for the king, if matters go on. Only wait till Governor Tryon sets about calling for loyal regiments. We shall be falling over one another in the scramble to volunteer. But I mean to be first."

"Good, cousin!" she cried. "You may kiss my hand for that--nay, my cheek, if I could reach it to you."

"Faith," said De Lancey, after gallantly touching her fingers with his lips, "if all the ladies in New York had such hands, and offered 'em to be kissed by each recruit for the king, there'd be no man left to fight on the rebel side."

"Why, his Majesty is welcome to my two hands for the purpose, and my face, too," she rattled on. "But some of our New York rebels were going to do great things: 'tis two months now, and yet we see nothing of their doings."

"Have a little patience, madam," said Philip, very quietly. "We rebels may be further advanced in our arrangements than is known in all quarters."

The truth of this was soon evident. In the open s.p.a.ces of the town--the parade-ground (or Bowling Green) outside the fort; the common at the head of the town; before the very barracks in Chambers Street that had just been vacated by the last of the royal troops in New York, they having sailed for Boston rather for their own safety than to swell the army there--there was continual instructing and drilling of awkward Whigs. Organisation had proceeded throughout the province, whose entire rebel force was commanded by Mr. Philip Schuyler, of Albany; subordinate to whom was Mr. Richard Montgomery, an Irish gentleman who had first set foot in America at Louisbourg, as a king's officer, and who now resided beyond Kingsbridge.

It was under Montgomery that Philip Winwood took service, enlisting as a private soldier, but soon revealing such knowledge of military matters that he was speedily, in the off-hand manner characteristic of improvised armies, made a lieutenant. This was a little strange, seeing that there was a mighty scramble for commissions, nine out of every ten patriots, however raw, clamouring to be officers; and it shows that sometimes (though 'tis not often) modest merit will win as well as self-a.s.sertive incompetence. Philip had obtained his acquaintance with military forms from books; he was, in his ability to a.s.similate the matter of a book, an exception among men; and a still greater exception in his ability to apply that matter practically.

Indeed, it sometimes seemed that he could get out of a book not only all that was in it, but more than was in it. Many will not believe what I have related of him, that he had actually learned the rudiments of fencing, the soldier's manual of arms, the routine of camp and march, and such things, from reading; but it is a fact: just as it is true that Greene, the best general of the rebels after Washington, learned military law, routine, tactics, and strategy, from books he read at the fire of the forge where he worked as blacksmith; and that the men whom he led to Cambridge, from Rhode Island, were the best disciplined, equipped, uniformed, and maintained, of the whole Yankee army at that time. As for Philip's gift of translating printed matter into actuality, I remember how, when we afterward came to visit strange cities together, he would find his way about without a question, like an old resident, through having merely read descriptions of the places.

But rank did not come unsought, or otherwise, to Philip's fellow volunteer from the Faringfield house, Mr. Cornelius. The pedagogue, with little to say on the subject, took the rebel side as a matter of course, Presbyterians being, it seems, republican in their nature. He went as a private in the same company with Philip.

It was planned that the rebel troops of New York province should invade Canada by way of Lake George, while the army under Washington continued the siege of Boston. Philip went through the form of arranging that his wife should remain at her father's house--the only suitable home for her, indeed--during his absence in the field; and so, in the Summer of 1775, upon a day much like that in which he had first come to us twelve years before, it was ours to wish him for a time farewell.

Mr. Faringfield and his lady, with f.a.n.n.y and Tom, stood in the hall, and my mother and I had joined them there, when Philip came down-stairs in his new blue regimentals. He wore his sword, but it was not his wife that had buckled it on. There had been no change in her manner toward him: he was still to her but as a strange guest in the house, rather to be disdained than treated with the courtesy due even to a strange guest. We all asked ourselves what her farewell would be, but none mentioned the thought. As Phil came into view at the first landing, he sent a quick glance among us to see if she was there. For a moment his face was struck into a sadly forlorn expression; but, as if by chance, she came out of the larger parlour at that moment, and his countenance revived almost into hope. The rest of us had already said our good-byes to Mr. Cornelius, who now stood waiting for Philip.

As the latter reached the foot of the stairs, Margaret suddenly turned to the pedagogue, to add her civility to ours, for she had always liked the bashful fellow, and _his_ joining the rebels was to her a matter of indifference--it did not in any way affect her own pleasure.

This movement on her part made it natural that Philip's first leave-taking should be of Mr. Faringfield, who, seeing Margaret occupied, went forward and grasped Phil's hand.

"G.o.d bless thee, lad," said he, showing the depth of his feelings as much by a tenderness very odd in so cold a man, as by reverting to the old p.r.o.noun now becoming obsolete except with Quakers, "and bring thee safe out of it all, and make thy cause victorious!"

"Good-bye, Philip," said Mrs. Faringfield, with some betrayal of affection, "and heaven bring you back to us!"

f.a.n.n.y's farewell, though spoken with a voice more tremulous and eyes more humid, was in the same strain; and so was that of my mother, though she could not refrain from adding, "Tis such a pity!" and wishing that so handsome a soldier was on the right side.

"Good-bye and good luck, dear old Phil!" was all that Tom said.

"And so say I," I put in, taking his hand in my turn, and trying not to show my discomposure, "meaning to yourself, but not to your cause.

Well--dear lad--heaven guard you, and give you a speedy return! For your sake and ours, may the whole thing be over before your campaign is begun. I should like to see a war, and be in one--but not a war like this, that makes enemies of you and me. Good-bye, Phil--and come back safe and sound."

'Twas Margaret's time now, for Ned was not present. There was a pause, as Phil turned questioningly--nay wistfully--toward her. She met his look calmly. Old Noah and some of the negroes, who had pressed forward to see Phil's departure from the house, were waiting for her to speak, that they might afterward call out their G.o.dspeed.

"Good-bye!" she said, at last, holding out her hand indifferently.

He took the hand, bent over it, pressed it with his lips. Then he looked at her again. I think she must have shown just the slightest yielding, given just the least permission, in her eyes; for he went nearer, and putting his arm around her, gently drew her close to him, and looked down at her. Suddenly she turned her face up, and pursed her lips. With a look of gladness, he pa.s.sionately kissed her.

"G.o.d bless you, my dear wife," he whispered; and then, as if by expecting more he might court a disappointment to mar the memory of that leave-taking, he released her, and said to us all: "Take care of her, I pray!" whereupon, abruptly turning, he hastened out of the open door, waving back his hat in response to our chorus of good-byes, and the loud "Go' bless you, Ma.s.sa Philip!" of the negroes.

We followed quickly to the porch, to look after him. But he strode off so fast that Cornelius had to run to keep up with him. He did not once look back, even when he pa.s.sed out of sight at the street corner. I believe he divined that his wife would not be among those looking after, and that he wished not to interpose any other last impression of his dear home than that of her kiss.

When we came back into the hall, she had flown. Later, as my mother and I went through the garden homeward, pa.s.sing beneath Margaret's open windows, we heard her weeping--not violently, but steadily, monotonously, as if she had a long season of the past to regret, a long portion of the future to sorrow for. And here let me say that I think Margaret, from first to last, loved Philip with more tenderness than she was capable of bestowing upon any one else; with an affection so deep that sometimes it might be obscured by counter feelings playing over the surface of her heart, so deep that often she might not be conscious of its presence, but so deep that it might never be uprooted:--and 'twas that which made things the more pitiful.

Tom and I went out, with a large number of the town's people, to watch the rebel soldiers depart, and we saw Philip with his company, and exchanged with him a smile and a wave of the hat. How little we thought that one of us he was never to meet again, that the other he was not to see in many years, and that four of those years were to pa.s.s ere he should set foot again in Queen Street.

Many things, to be swiftly pa.s.sed over in my history, occurred in those four years. One of these, the most important to me, happened a short time after Philip's departure for the North. It was a brief conversation with f.a.n.n.y, and it took place upon the wayside walk at what they call the Battery, at the green Southern end of the town, where it is brought to a rounded point by the North and East Rivers approaching each other as they flow into the bay. To face the gentle breeze, I stopped and turned so we might look Southward over the bay, toward where, at the distant Narrows, Long Island and Staten Island seem to meet and close it in.

"I don't like to look out yonder," said f.a.n.n.y. "It makes me imagine I'm away on the ocean, by myself. And it seems so lonely."

"Why, you poor child," replied I, "'tis a sin you should ever feel lonely; you do so much to prevent others being so." I turned my back upon the bay, and led her past the fort, toward the Broadway. "You see," said I, abruptly, glancing at her brown eyes, which dropped in a charming confusion, "how much you need a comrade." I remember I was not entirely unconfused myself at that moment, for inspiration had suddenly shown me my opportunity, and how to use it, and some inward trepidation was inseparable from a plunge into the matter I was now resolved upon going through.

"Why," says she, blushing, and seeming, as she walked, to take a great interest in her pretty feet, "I have several comrades as it is."

"Yes. But I mean one that should devote himself to you alone. Philip has Margaret; and besides, he is gone now, and so is Mr. Cornelius.

And Tom will be finding a wife some day, and your parents cannot live for ever, and your friends will be married one after another."

"Poor me!" says she, with a sigh of comic wofulness. "How helpless and alone you make me feel!"

"Not so entirely alone, neither! There's one I didn't mention."

"And that one, too, I suppose, will be running off some day."

"No. He, like Tom, will be seeking a wife some day; perhaps sooner than Tom; perhaps very soon indeed; perhaps this very minute."