SCENE 79 - Afternoon following trial, family gathered in HENRY's
apartment.
(HENRY spends a few hours after his sentence in the bosom of his family.
Mr. WHARTON weeps in hopeless despondency over the untimely death of his
son; and FRANCES, after recovering herself, experiences an anguish of feeling
to which the bitterness of death itself would have been comparatively light.)
(Miss PEYTON alone retains a vestige of hope, or presence of mind to
suggest what might be proper to be done under their circumstances. The composure
of the good aunt arises in no degree from any want of interest in the welfare
of her nephew, but it is founded in a kind of instinctive dependence on
the character of Washington.)
(He was a native in 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 she felt a kind of pride in associating her countryman with the man
who led the armies, and in a great measure, controlled the destinies of
America.)
(She knows that HENRY is innocent of the crime for which he is condemned
to suffer, and, with that kind of simple faith that is ever to be found
in the most ingenuous characters, cannot conceive of those interpretations
of law that inflicted punishment without the actual existence of crime;
but even for her, her confiding hopes are doomed to meet a speedy termination.)
SCENE 80 - Noon - Same day a short distance from the building
housing the WHARTON family
(Toward noon, a regiment of militia moves up from the river to the
ground in front of the house where the prisoner and his family are being
housed, and pitch their tents with avowed intention of remaining until the
next morning, to give solemnity and effect to the execution of a British
spy.)
(DUNWOODIE performs all that is required of him by his orders, and is
at liberty to retrace his steps to his squadron, which is impatiently waiting
his return, to be led against a detachment of the enemy, that is known to
be slowly moving up the banks of the river, in order to cover a party of
foragers in its rear.)
(He is accompanied by a small party of LAWTON's troop, under the expectation
that their testimony might be required to convict the prisoner; MASON, the
lieutenant, is in command. The confession of Captain WHARTON removed the
necessity of examining witnesses on behalf of the people; thus the Major,
unwilling to encounter the distress of HENRY's family, and dreading being
within its influence, spends the time the family is together, in walking
by himself a short distance from the building.)
(Like Miss PEYTON, he has some reliance on the mercy of Washington, although
moments of doubt and despondency are continually crossing his mind. A dreadful
instance had too recently occurred, which fully proved that Washington was
above the weakness of sparing another in mercy to himself. While he is pacing
with hurried steps through the orchard, Lt. MASON approaches, accoutred
completely for the saddle.)
MASON (coolly cutting down with his sword the mullen tops within
his reach): Thinking you might have forgotten the news brought this morning
from below, sir, I have taken the liberty to order the detachment under
arms.
DUNWOODIE: What news?
MASON: 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 enough to
furnish the bed of a Yankee heiress.
DUNWOODIE: Where did the express leave them, did you say? The intelligence
has entirely escaped my memory.
MASON: On the heights of Sing-Sing, 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.
DUNWOODIE: Peace, with all this nonsense of SINGLETON's orderly, Mr.
MASON, let him learn to wait the orders of his superiors.
MASON: I beg pardon in his name, Major, 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.
DUNWOODIE: Recollect yourself, Lt. MASON, or I may have to teach you
that your orders pass through me.
MASON: I know it, Major DUNWOODIE, I know it; and I am sorry that
your memory is so bad as to forget that I never have yet hesitated to obey
them.
DUNWOODIE (taking both his hands) Forgive me, MASON, I do know
you for a brave and obedient soldier; forget my humor. But this business
- had you ever a friend?
MASON: Nay, nay, forgive me and my honest zeal. I knew of the orders,
and was fearful that censure might fall on my officer. But 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.
DUNWOODIE: Oh, that the courier returns from headquarters! This suspense
is insupportable.
MASON: You have your wish, here he is 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 (leaping the fence without hearing TOM's last sentence,
he rushes to the messenger) What news?
The MESSENGER (placing a paper in the Major's hand): Good!
But you can read it for yourself.
(DUNWOODIE does not pause, however , to read, but flies with an elastic
spring of joy to the chamber of the prisoner. The sentinel knows him and
lets him pass without question.)
SCENE 81 - In HENRY's room seconds later with the WHARTON family
still gathered
FRANCES (As DUNWOODIE enters the room): Oh, PEYTON,
you look like a messenger from heaven! Bring you tidings of mercy.
DUNWOODIE: Here, FRANCES, - here, HENRY - here, dear cousin, JEANETTE,
here is the letter itself, directed to the captain of the guard. But listen
-
(All listen with intense anxiety; and the pang of blasted hope is
added to their misery, as they see the glow of delight which beamed on the
face of the Major give place to a look of horror. The paper contains the
sentence of the court, and underneath is written these simple words:)
DUNWOODIE (reads):
====Approved - George Washington====
FRANCES: He's lost - he's lost! (sinking into the arms of her
aunt)
Mr. WHARTON: My son! My son! There is mercy in heaven, if there is
none on earth. May Washington never want that mercy he thus denies to my
innocent child!
DUNWOODIE: Washington! Yes, 'tis the act of Washington himself; these
are his characters; his very name is here, to sanction the dreadful deed.
Miss PEYTON: Cruel, cruel Washington! how has familiarity with blood
changed his nature!
DUNWOODIE: Blame him not, it is the general, and not the man, my life
on it, he feels the blow he is compelled to inflict on HENRY.
JUDGMENT FLAW -
FRANCES: "Your cruel Washington is not the
sympathetic leader I admired .. nor the savior ... of our country, but a
cold and merciless tyrant." (DUNWOODIE:) "Peace, dear FRANCES,
peace ... for God's sake! ... He made that decision as guardian of the law."
HENRY sings MY FATE:"You speak truth, DUNWOODIE,..
for I, ... who am to suffer, ... blame him not ... this judgment flaw."
"Indulgences have ... been granted to me, ... soon on
the verge of the grave... I looked a threat of danger ... yet my life you
tried to save... now I have yet ... four requests ... to make."
DUNWOODIE sings: "Name them"
HENRY sings REQUESTS:
"Please be a son to this old man ... protect him when
you can ... from stigma thrust on me ... that could cause him more misery
...He counts few friends in this country ... Will you let your powerful
name one be?" DUNWOODIE: "I will."
HENRY sings:
"I had hoped to avenge the wrongs ... to this helpless
innocent ...but such thoughts are evil .. and should not be ...I give her
to your care, if you consent." DUNWOODIE: "I do."
HENRY sings:
"This good aunt has a claim on you already ... so of
her I will not speak ... but ...
"Here is ... the choicest gift of all ...Here is ...
a treasured prize for you .....Take her ... unto your bosom now ....your
heart's desire ... this lovely child ... of innocence ... and virtue. (repeat
music) Keep her ... in sickness or in health ... love her ... more than
you love yourself ... Help her ... whenever she needs help ... she can be
yours ... the fairest flower ... in all our land ... forever."
(The Major cannot repress the eagerness with which he extends his hand
to receive the precious boon; but FRANCES, shrinking from his touch, hides
her face in the bosom of her aunt.)
FRANCES: No, no, no, - none can ever be any thing to me who aids in
my brother's destruction.
(HENRY continues gazing at her in tender pity for several moments, before
he again resumes a discourse that all feel is not peculiarly his own.)
HENRY: I have been mistaken then. I did think, PEYTON, that your worth,
your noble devotion to a cause that you have been taught to revere, that
your kindness to our father when in imprisonment, your friendship for me
- in short, - that your character was understood and valued by my sister.
FRANCES: It is - it is! (But buries her face deeper in the bosom
of her aunt)
DUNWOODIE: I believe, dear HENRY, this is a subject that had better
not be dwelt upon now.
HENRY: You forget, how much I have to do, and how little time is left
to do it in.
DUNWOODIE: I apprehend that Miss WHARTON has imbibed some opinions
of me that would make a compliance with your request irksome to her - opinions
that it is now too late to alter.
FRANCES: No, no, no. You are exonerated, PEYTON, with ISABELLA's dying
breath she removed my doubts.
DUNWOODIE: Generous, ISABELLA, but still, HENRY, spare your sister
now; nay, spare even me.
HENRY sings PITY ME:
"I speak in pity to myself ... What a time to leave
... two lovely females ... unprotected ... with their home destroyed ...
and our father aging ...faster than expected ... All this misery ... may
soon deprive these ... of their last male friend. - How can I then ... die
in peace"
"... with the knowledge ... of the danger ... that with
them alone ... will surely soon increase ... FRANCES, before I turn my thoughts
to heaven ... if you would wish for me ... a feeling of security, ... please
let the local clergy ... unite you to DUNWOODIE."
HENRY: The good woman who lives in this house has already dispatched
a messenger for a man of God, to smooth my passage to another world -
(FRANCES shakes her head and remains silent.)
HENRY: I ask for no joy - no demonstration of a felicity that you
will not or cannot feel, for months to come; but obtain a right to his powerful
name - give him an undisputed title to protect you -
(Again she makes an impressive gesture of denial.)
HENRY: For the sake of that unconscious sufferer (pointing to
SARAH) for your sake - for my sake - my sister -
FRANCES: Peace, HENRY, or you will break my heart, not for worlds
would I at such a moment engage in the solemn vows that you wish. It would
render me miserable for life.
HENRY: You love him not. I cease to urge you to do what is against
your inclinations.
(FRANCES raises one hand to conceal her countenance, as she extends the
other toward DUNWOODIE.)
FRANCES: Now you are unjust to me - before, you were unjust to yourself.
HENRY: Promise me then, that as soon as the recollection of my fate
is softened, you will give my friend that hand for life, and I am satisfied.
FRANCES: I do promise (withdrawing the hand that DUNWOODIE delicately
relinquishes).
HENRY: Well, then, my good aunt, will you leave me for a short time
with my friend? I have a few melancholy commissions with which to entrust
him, and would spare you and my sister the pain of hearing them.
Miss PEYTON: There is yet time to see Washington again. I will go
myself; surely he must listen to a woman from his own colony - and we are
in some degree connected with his family.
FRANCES: Why not apply to Mr. HARPER? (remembering his parting
words for the first time.)
DUNWOODIE: HARPER! What of him? Do you know him?
HENRY: It is in vain. FRANCES clings to hope with the fondness of
a sister.
(But FRANCES reads an expression in the eye of DUNWOODIE that chains
her to the spot; struggling to command her feelings -)
FRANCES: He stayed with us for two days - he was with us when HENRY
was arrested.
DUNWOODIE: And did you know him?
FRANCES: Nay, we knew him not; he came to us in the night, a stranger,
and remained with us during the severe storm; but he seemed to take an interest
in HENRY, and promised him his friendship.
DUNWOODIE: What! Did he know your brother?
FRANCES: Certainly, it was at his request that HENRY threw aside his
disguise.
DUNWOODIE: But he knew him not as an officer of the royal army?
Miss PEYTON: Indeed he did, he cautioned us against this very danger.
(DUNWOODIE picks up the fatal paper that still lay where it had fallen
from his hands, and studies its characters intently. Something seemed to
bewilder him in his brain. He passes his hand over his forehead, while each
eye is fixed on him in dreadful suspense - all feeling afraid to admit those
hopes anew that had been so sadly destroyed.)
DUNWOODIE: What said he? What promised he?
FRANCES: He bid HENRY apply to him when in danger, and promised to
requite the son for the hospitality of the father.
DUNWOODIE: Said he this, knowing him to be a British officer?
FRANCES: Most certainly, and with a view to this very danger.
DUNWOODIE: Then then you are safe - then will I save him; yes, HARPER
will never forget his word.
FRANCES: But has he the power? Can he move the stubborn purpose of Washington?
DUNWOODIE: Can he! If he cannot, - if he cannot, who can? Greene, Heath, and young Hamilton,
are nothing, compared to this HARPER, but ( he rushes to FRANCES, pressing
her hands convulsively) repeat to me - you say you have his promise?
FRANCES: Surely, surely, PEYTON, his solemn deliberate promise, knowing
all the circumstances.
DUNWOODIE: Rest easy, rest easy, for HENRY is safe.
(He waits not to explain, but dashes from the room, leaving the family
in amazement. They continue in silent wonder until they hear the feet of
his charger, as he dashes from the door with the speed of an arrow.)
(A long time is spent after this abrupt departure of the youth, by
the anxious friends he had left, in discussing the possibility of his success.
The confidence of his manner communicated to his auditors something of his
own spirit. Each feels that the prospects of HENRY are again brightening,
and with their reviving hopes they experience a renewal of spirits, which
in all but HENRY amounted to pleasure.)
(With him, his state is too awful to admit of trifling, and for a few
hours he is condemned to feel how much more intolerable is suspense than
even the certainty of calamity.. Not so with FRANCES. She, with all the
reliance of affection, reposed in security on the assurance of DUNWOODIE,
without harassing herself with doubts that she possesses not the means of
satisfying; but believing her lover able to accomplish everything than man
could do.)
(The joy of Miss PEYTON was more sobered, and she takes frequent occasions
to reprove her niece for the exuberance of her spirits.)
FRANCES: Why, dearest aunt, would you have me repress the pleasure
that I feel at HENRY's deliverance, when you yourself have so often declared
it to be impossible that such men as ruled in our country could sacrifice
an innocent man?
Miss PEYTON: Nay, I did believe it impossible, my child, and yet think
so; but still there is a discretion to be shown in joy as well as in sorrow.
(FRANCES recalls the declaration of ISABELLA, and turns an eye filled
with tears of gratitude on her excellent aunt.)
FRANCES: True, but there are feelings that will not yield to reason.
Ah! Here are those monsters, who have come to witness the death of a fellow-creature,
moving around yon field, as if life was, to them, nothing but a military
show.
HENRY: It is but little more to the hireling soldier.
Miss PEYTON: You gaze, my love, as if you thought a military show
of some importance.
(She observes her niece looking from the window with a fixed and abstracted
attention. From where the girl stands, the pass that they had traveled through
the Highlands was easily to be seen; and the mountain which held on its
summit the mysterious hut was directly before her.)
(Its side is rugged and barren; huge and apparently impassable barriers
of rocks presenting themselves through the stunted oaks, which stripped
of their foliage, are scattered over the surface. The base of the hill is
not half a mile from the house, and the object which attracted the notice
of FRANCES, was the figure of a man emerging from behind a rock of remarkable
formation, and as suddenly disappearing.)
(This maneuver is several times repeated, as if it were the intention
of the fugitive (for such by his air he seemed to be) to observe the proceeding
of the soldiery, and assure himself to the position of things on the plain.
FRANCES instantly imbibes the opinion that it is BIRCH.)
(Perhaps this impression is partly owing to the air and figure of
the man, but in a great measure to the idea that presented itself on formerly
beholding the object near the summit of the mountain. That they are the
same figure she is confident, although this wants the appearance which,
the other, she has taken for the pack of the peddler.)
(HARVEY has so connected himself with the mysterious deportment of HARPER,
within her imagination, that due to the circumstances of agitation under
which she has labored since her arrival, she keeps her suspicions to herself.)
(FRANCES sits ruminating on this second appearance in silence, and
endeavoring to trace what possible connection this extraordinary man could
have with the fortunes of her own family. He had certainly saved SARAH,
in some degree, from the blow that had partially alighted on her, and in
no instance had he proved himself to be hostile to their interests.)
(After gazing a long time at the point where she last saw the figure,
in the expectation of its re-appearance, she turns to her friends in the
apartment. Miss PEYTON is sitting by SARAH, who gives some slight signs
of observing what passed, but who still continues insensible either to joy
or grief.)
Miss PEYTON: I suppose by this time, my love, that you are well acquainted
with the maneuvers of a regiment; it is no bad quality in a soldier's wife,
at all events.
FRANCES: I am not a wife yet, and we have little reason to wish for
another wedding in our family.
HENRY: FRANCES, touch not that chord again, I entreat you. While my
fate is uncertain, I would wish to be at peace with all men.
FRANCES: Then let the uncertainty cease, for here comes PEYTON with
the joyful intelligence of your release.
(The words are hardly uttered, before the door opens and the Major enters.
In his air there is the appearance of neither success nor defeat, but there
is a marked display of vexation. He takes the hand of FRANCES, in the fullness
of her heart, extended towards him, but instantly relinquishing it, throws
himself into a chair, in evident fatigue.)
HENRY: You have failed. (With a bound of his heart, but an appearance
of composure.)
FRANCES: You have seen HARPER?
PEYTON: I have not; I crossed the river in one boat as he must have
been crossing to this side, in another. I returned without delay, and traced
him for several miles into the Highlands, by the western pass, but there
I unaccountably lost him. I have returned here to relieve you uneasiness;
but see him I will this night, and bring respite for HENRY.
Miss PEYTON: But saw you Washington?
(DUNWOODIE gazes at her a moment in abstracted musing, and the question
is repeated. He answers gravely, and with some reserve.)
PEYTON: The Commander-in-chief had left his quarters.
FRANCES: But, PEYTON, if they should not see each other, it will be
too late. HARPER alone will not be sufficient.
(Her lover turns his eyes slowly on her anxious countenance, and dwelling
a moment on her features, still musing -)
PEYTON: You say that he promised to assist HENRY?
FRANCES: Certainly, of his own accord, and in requital for the hospitality
he had received.
(DUNWOODIE shakes his head and begins to look grave.)
PEYTON: I like not that word hospitality - it has an empty sound;
there must be something more reasonable to tie HARPER. I dread some mistake;
repeat to me all that passed.
(FRANCES, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied with his request.
She relates particularly the manner of his arrival at the LOCUSTS, the reception
he received, and the vents that passed, as minutely as her memory could
supply her with the means. As she alludes to the conversation that occurred
between her father and his guest, the Major smiled, but remained silent.)
(She then gives a detail of HENRY's arrival, and the events of the
following day. She dwelt upon the part where HARPER had desired her brother
to throw aside his disguise, and recounts, with wonderful accuracy, his
remarks upon the hazard of the step that the youth had taken..)
(She even remembers a remarkable expression of his to her brother, "that
he was safer from HARPER's knowledge of his person, than he would be without
it." FRANCES mentions, with the warmth of youthful admiration, the
benevolent character of his deportment to herself, and gave a minute relation
of his adieus to the whole family.)
(DUNWOODIE at first listens with grave attention, evident satisfaction
follows as she proceeds. When she speaks of herself, in connection with
their guest, he smiled with pleasure, and as she concludes, he exclaims,
with delight -)
PEYTON: We are safe! - we are safe! | 