Part VI. RECONCILIATION

THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD.

PART FIRST.

INDUCTION.

DIALOGUE I.

SCENE. The road-side on the slope of a wooded hill near Fort Edward. The speakers, two young soldiers,—Students in arms.

1st Student. The se were the evenings last year, when the bell

From the old college tower, would find us still

Under the shady elms, with sauntering step

And book in hand, or on the dark grass stretched,

Or lounging on the fence, with skyward gaze

Amid the sunset warble. Ah! that world,—

That world we lived in then—where is it now?

Like earth to the departed dead, methinks.

2nd Stud. Yet oftenest, of that homeward path I think,

Amid the deepening twilight slowly trod,

And I can hear the click of that old gate,

As once again, amid the chirping yard,

I see the summer rooms, open and dark,

And on the shady step the sister stands,

Her merry welcome, in a mock reproach,

Of Love's long childhood breathing. Oh this year,

This year of blood hath made me old, and yet,

Spite of my manhood now, with all my heart,

I could lie down upon this grass and weep

For those old blessed times, the times of peace again.

1st Stud. The re will be weeping, Frank, from older eyes,

Or e'er again that blessed time shall come.

Hearts strong and glad now, must be broke ere then:

Wild tragedies, that for the days to come

Shall faery pastime make, must yet ere then

Be acted here; ay, with the genuine clasp

Of anguish, and fierce stabs, not buried in silk robes,

But in hot hearts, and sighs from wrung souls'depths.

And they shall walk in light that we have made,

They of the days to come, and sit in shadow

Of our blood-reared vines, not counting the wild cost.

Thus'tis: among glad ages many,—one—

In garlands lies, bleeding and bound. Times past,

And times to come, on ours, as on an Altar—

Have laid down their griefs, and unto us

Is given the burthen of them all.

2nd Stud.

And yet,

See now, how pleasantly the sun shines there

Over the yellow fields, to the brown fence

Its hour of golden beauty—giving still.

And but for that faint ringing from the fort,

That comes just now across the vale to us,

And this small band of soldiers planted here,

I could think this was peace, so calmly there,

The afternoon amid the valley sleeps.

1st Stud. Yet in the bosom of this gentle time,

The crisis of an Age-long struggle heaves.

2nd Stud. Age-long? —Why, this land's history can scarce

Be told in ages, yet.

1st Stud.

But this war's can.

In that small isle beyond the sea, Francis,

Ages, ages ago, its light first blazed.

This is the war. Old, foolish, blind prerogative,

In ermines wrapped, and sitting on king's thrones;

Against young reason, in a peasant's robe

His king's brow hiding. For the infant race

We aves for itself the chains its manhood scorns,

(When time hath made them adamant, alas!—)

The reverence of humanity, that gold

Which makes power's glittering round, ordained of God

But for the lovely majesty of right,

Unto a mad usurper, yielding, all,

Making the low and lawless will of man

Vicegerent of that law and will divine,

Whose image only, reason hath, on earth.

This is the struggle:— here, we'll fight it out.

'Twas all too narrow and too courtly there;

In sight of that old pageantry of power

We were, in truth, the children of the past,

Scarce knowing our own time: but here, we stand

In nature's palaces, and we are men;—

Here, grandeur hath no younger dome than this;

And now, the strength which brought us o'er the deep,

Hath grown to manhood with its nurture here,—

Now that they heap on us abuses, that

Had crimsoned the first William's cheek, to name,—

We're ready now—for our last grapple with blind power.

[ Exeunt.

DIALOGUE II.

SCENE. The same. A group of ragged soldiers in conference.

1st Soldier. I am flesh and blood myself, as well as the rest of you, but there is no use in talking. What the devil would you do?—You may talk till dooms-day, but what's to hinder us from serving our time out?— and that's three months yet. Ay, there's the point. Show me that.

2nd Sol. Three months! Ha, thank Heaven mine is up to-morrow; and, I'll tell you what, boys, before the sun goes down to-morrow night, you will see one Jack Richards trudging home,—trudging home, Sirs! None of your bamboozling, your logic, and your figures. A good piece of bread and butter is the figure for me. But you should hear the Colonel, though, as the time draws nigh. Lord! you'd think I was the General at least. Humph, says I.

3d Sol. Ay, ay,—feed you on sugar-candy till they get you to sign, and then comes the old shoes and moccasins.—

2nd Sol. And that's true enough, Ned. I've eaten myself, no less than two very decent pair in the service. I'll have it out of Congress yet though, I'll be hanged if I don't. None of your figures for me! I say, boys, I am going home.

1st Sol. We ll, go home, and—can't any body else breathe? Why don't you answer me, John?—What would you have us do?—

4th Sol. Ask Will Wilson there.

1st Sol. Will?—Where is he?

4th Sol. The re he stands, alongside of the picket there, his hands in his pockets, whistling, and looking as wise as the dragon. Mind you, there's always something pinching at the bottom of that same whistle, though its such a don't-care sort of a whistle too. Ask Will, he'll tell you.

3d Sol. Ay, Will has been to the new quarters to-day. See, he's coming this way.

5th Sol. And he saw Striker there, fresh from the Jerseys, come up along with that new General there, yesterday.

3d Sol. General Arnold?

5th Sol. Ay, ay, General Arnold it is.

6th Sol. [ Advancing.] I say, boys—

4th Sol. What's the matter, Will?

6th Sol. Do you want to know what they say below?

All. Ay, ay, what's the news?

6th Sol. All up there, Sirs. A gone horse!—and he that turns his coat first, is the best fellow.

4th Sol. No?

6th Sol. And shall I tell you what else they say?

4th Sol. Ay.

6th Sol. Shall I?

All. Ay, ay. What is it?

6th Sol. That we are a cowardly, sneaking, good-for-nothing pack of poltroons, here in the north. The re's for you! The re's what you get for your pains, Sirs. And for the rest, General Schuyler is to be disgraced, and old Gates is to be set over us again, and—no matter for the rest. See here, boys. Any body coming? See here.

3d Sol. What has he got there?

2nd Sol. The Proclamation! The Proclamation! Will you be good enough to let me see if there is not a picture there somewhere, with an Indian and a tomahawk?

6th Sol. Now, Sirs, he that wants a new coat, and a pocket full of money—

3d Sol. That's me fast enough.

2nd Sol. If he had mentioned a shirt-sleeve now, or a rim to an old hat—

4th Sol. Or a bit of a crown, or so.

6th Sol. He that wants a new coat—get off from my toes, you scoundrel.

All. Let's see. Let's see. Read—read.

7th Sol. ( Spouting.)"And he that don't want his house burned over his head, and his wife and children, or his mother and sisters, as the case may be, butchered or eaten alive before his eyes—"

3d Sol. Heavens and earth! It'ant so though, Wilson, is it?

7th Sol."Is required to present himself at the said village of Skeensborough, on or before the 20th day of August next. Boo—boo—boo—Who but I. Given under my hand."—If it is not it —it is something very like it, I can tell you, Sirs. I say, boys, the old rogue wants his neck wrung for insulting honest soldiers in that fashion; and I say that you—for shame, Will Willson.

4th Sol. Hush!—the Colonel!—Hush!

2nd Sol. And who is that proud-looking fellow, by his side?

4th Sol. Hush! General Arnold. He's a sharp one—roll it up—roll it up.

6th Sol. Get out,—you are rumpling it to death.

( Two American officers are seen close at hand, in a bend of the ascending road; the soldiers enter the woods.)

DIALOGUE III.

SCENE. The same.

1st Officer. I cannot conceal it from you, Sir; there is but one feeling about it, as far as I can judge, and I had some chances in my brief journey—

2nd Off. We re you at head-quarters?

1st Off. Yes,—and every step of this retreating army only makes it more desperate. I never knew any thing like the mad, unreasonable terror this army inspires. Burgoyne and his Indians!—"Burgoyne and the Indians"—there is not a girl on the banks of the Connecticut that does not expect to see them by her father's door ere day-break. Colonel Leslie, what were those men concealing so carefully as we approached just now?—Did you mark them?

2nd Off. Yes. If I am not mistaken, it was the paper we were speaking of.

1st Off. Ay, ay,—I thought as much.

2nd Off. General Arnold, I am surprised you should do these honest men the injustice to suppose that such an impudent, flimsy, bombastic tirade as that same proclamation of Burgoyne's, should have a feather's weight with any mother's son of them.

Arnold. A feather's, ay a feather's, just so; but when the scales are turning, a feather counts too, and that is the predicament just now of more minds than you think for, Colonel Leslie. A pretty dark horizon around us just now, Sir,—another regiment goes off to-morrow, I hear. Hey?

Leslie. Why, no. At least we hope not. We think we shall be able to keep them yet, unless—that paper might work some mischief with them perhaps, and it would be rather a fatal affair too, I mean in the way of example.—The se Green Mountain Boys—

Arnold. Colonel Leslie, Colonel Leslie, this army is melting away like a snow-wreath. The re's no denying it. Your General misses it. The news of one brave battle would send the good blood to the fingers'ends from ten thousand chilled hearts; no matter how fearful the odds; the better, the better,—no matter how large the loss;—for every slain soldier, a hundred better would stand on the field;—

Leslie. But then—

Arnold. By all that's holy, Sir, if I were head here, the red blood should smoke on this grass ere to-morrow's sunset. I would have battle here, though none but the birds of the air were left to carry the tale to the nation. I tell you, Colonel Leslie, a war, whose resources are only in the popular feeling, as now, and for months to come, this war's must be; a war, at least, which depends wholly upon the unselfishness of a people, as this war does, can be kept alive by excitement only. It was wonderful enough indeed, to behold a whole people, the low and comfort-loving too, in whose narrow lives that little world which the sense builds round us, takes such space, forsaking the tangible good of their merry firesides, for rags and wretchedness,—poverty that the thought of the citizen beggar cannot reach,—the supperless night on the frozen field; with the news perchance of a home in ashes, or a murdered household, and, last of all, on some dismal day, the edge of the sword or the sharp bullet ending all;—and all in defence of—what?—an idea—an Abstraction,—a thought:—I say this was wonderful enough, even in the glow of the first excitement. But now that the Jersey winter is fresh in men's memories, and Lexington and Bunker Hill are forgotten, and all have found leisure and learning to count the cost; it were expecting miracles indeed, to believe that this army could hold together with a policy like this. Every step of this retreat, I say again, treads out some lingering spark of enthusiasm. Own it yourself. Is not this army dropping off by hundreds, and desertion too, increasing every hour, thinning your own ranks and swelling your foes?—and that, too, at a crisis—Colonel Leslie, retreat a little further, some fifty miles further; let Burgoyne once set foot in Albany, and the business is done,—we may roll up our pretty declaration as fast as we please, and go home in peace.

Leslie. General Arnold, I have heard you to the end, though you have spoken insultingly of councils in which I have had my share. Will you look at this little clause in this paper, Sir. The excitement you speak of will come ere long, and that at a rate less ruinous than this whole army's loss. The re's a line—there's a line, Sir, that will make null and void, very soon, if not on the instant, all the evil of these golden promises. The re'll be excitement enough ere long; but better blood than that shed in battle fields must flow to waken it.

Arnold. I hardly understand you, Sir. Is it this threat you point at?

Leslie. Can't you see?—They have let loose these hell-hounds upon us, and butchery must be sent into our soft and innocent homes;—beings that we have sheltered from the air of heaven, brows that have grown pale at the breath of an ungentle word, must meet the red knife of the Indian now. Oh God, this is war!

Arnold. I understand you, Colonel Leslie. The re was a crisis like this in New Jersey last winter, I know, when our people were flocking to the royal standard, as they are now, and a few fiendish outrages on the part of the foe changed the whole current in our favor. It may be so now, but meanwhile—

Leslie. Meanwhile, this army is the hope of the nation, and must be preserved. We are wronged, Sir. Have we not done all that men could do? What were twenty pitched battles to such an enemy, with a force like ours, compared with the harm we have done them? Have we not kept them loitering here among these hills, wasting the strength that was meant to tell in the quivering fibres of men, on senseless trees and stones, paralyzing them with famine, wearying them with unexciting, inglorious toil, until, divided and dispirited, at last we can measure our power with theirs, and fight, not in vain? Why, even now the division is planning there, which will bring them to our feet. And what to us, Sir, were the hazards of one bloody encounter, to the pitiful details of this unhonored warfare?—We are wronged—we are wronged, Sir.

Arnold. The re is some policy in the plan you speak of,—certainly, there is excellent policy in it if one had the patience to follow it out; but then you can't make Congress see it, or the people either; and so, after all, your General is superseded. We ll, well, at all events he must abandon this policy now,—it's the only chance left for him.

Leslie. Why; howso?

Arnold. Or else, don't you see?—just at the point where the glory appears, this eastern hero steps in, and receives it all; and the laurels which he has been rearing so long, blow just in time to drop on the brow of his rival.

Leslie. General Arnold,—excuse me, Sir—you do not understand the man of whom you speak. The re is a substance in the glory he aims at, to which, all that you call by the name is as the mere shell and outermost rind. Good Heavens! Do you think that, for the sake of his own individual fame, the man would risk the fate of this great enterprize?—What a mere fool's bauble, what an empty shell of honor, would that be. If I thought he would—