CHAPTER XVI
'Twixt Love and Duty
"Ay, it's as I thought," he remarked, returning the glass after a long gaze; "that's the Radnor, curse her!"
"The Radnor, mate? Are you quite sure?"
"Bosun, does a man live in a hell like that for a year and a half, and forget how it looks? I 'd know her among a thousand ships!"
"What's that you say, my man?" eagerly asked Seymour, stopping suddenly, having caught some part of the conversation as he was passing by.
"Why, that that 'ere ship is the Radnor, sir."
Talbot and his men were busy with the gun aft; no one heard but Seymour and Bentley.
"The Radnor! How do you know it, man?"
"I served aboard her for eighteen months, sir. I knows every line of her,—that there spliced fore shroud, the patch in the mainsail,—I put it on myself,—besides, I know her; I don't know how, but know her I do, every stick in her. Curse her—saving your honor's presence—I 'm not likely to forget her. I was whipped at the grating till I was nearly dead, just for standing up for this country, on board of her, and me a freeborn American too! I 've got her sign manual on my back, and her picture here, and I 'd give all the rest of my life to see her smashed and sunk, and feel that I 'd had some hand in the doing of it. Ay, I know her. Could a man ever forget her!" continued the seaman, turning away white with passion, and shaking his fist in convulsive rage at the frigate, which made a handsome picture in spite of all. Seymour's face was as white as Thompson's was.
"The Radnor! The Radnor! Why, that's the ship Miss Wilton is on. Oh, Bentley, what can be done now?" he said, the whole situation rising before him. "If we lead that ship through the pass it means wreck for her. Dacres, who commands the Radnor, is a new man on this station. And if we don't try the pass, this ship is captured. And our country, our cause, receives a fatal blow! Was ever a man in such a situation before?"
Bentley looked at him with eyes full of pity. "We are approaching the shoal now, sir, and unless we would be on it, we will have to bring the ship by the wind at once."
This, at least, was a respite. Seymour glanced ahead, and at once gave the necessary orders. When the course was altered it became necessary to take in the fore and main topgallantsails, on account of the wind, now blowing a half gale and steadily rising. The speed of the ship, therefore, was unfortunately sensibly diminished, and she was soon pitching and heaving on the starboard tack, much to the astonishment of Talbot and the crew, who were ignorant of the existence of the shoal, and the latter of whom could see no necessity for the dangerous alteration in the course; they, however, of course said nothing, and Talbot, whose ignorance of seamanship did not qualify him to decide difficult questions, after a glance at Seymour's stern, pale face, decided to ask nothing about it. This present course being at right angles to that of their pursuer, whom neither Seymour nor Bentley doubted to be the Radnor, would speedily bring the two ships together. They had gained a small but precious advantage, however, as the frigate, apparently as much surprised by the unexpected manoeuvre as their own men, had allowed some moments to elapse before her helm was shifted and the wind brought on the other quarter; the courses of the two ships now intersected at an angle of perhaps seventy degrees, which would bring them together in a short time.
The people on the Mellish could plainly hear the drums of the frigate, now almost in range, beating to quarters. They were near enough to count the gunports; it was indeed a heavy frigate,—a thirty-six, just the rating of the Radnor. Talbot had made ready his field-piece, and in a moment the heavy boom of the gun echoed over the waters. The shot fell a little short, but was in good line. Much encouraged, the men hastened to load the piece again, while the Mellish crept along, all too slowly for the eager anxiety of her crew, toward the mouth of the channel, of which most of them, however, knew nothing. The frigate, partly because in order to bring a gun to bear on the chase it would have to luff up into the wind and thus lose valuable distance, and also because the rapidity with which the Mellish was being overhauled rendered it unnecessary, had hitherto refrained from using its batteries. The chances of escape under the present conditions were about even, had it not been for the complication introduced by the presence of Katharine and her father upon the frigate.
Seymour was in a painful and frightful state of indecision. What should he do? The dilemma forced upon him was one of those which Katharine had foreseen, and of which they had talked together. He, apparently, must decide between his love and his country. If he held on when he reached the mouth of the channel and passed it by, the capture of the ship was absolutely inevitable. If he went through the channel and enticed the English ship after him, the death of his sweetheart was likewise apparently inevitable.
Chasing with the determination shown by the English captain, who had his topgallantsails still set, and with the little warning he would have of the existence of the shoal, owing to the rapid closing of the day, the frigate would have to attempt the channel, and in that way for that ship lay destruction.
Save Katharine— Lose the ship. Save the ship— Lose Katharine. Love or Duty—which should it be? The man was attacked in the two most powerful sources of human action. He saw on one side Katharine tossed about by the merciless waves, white-faced with terror, and stretching out her hands to him in piteous appeal from that angry sea in the horror of darkness and death. And every voice which spoke to the human heart was eloquent of her. And then on the other side there stood those grim and frozen ranks, those gaunt, hungry, naked men. They too stretched out hands to him. "Give us arms, give us raiment," they seemed to say. "You had the opportunity and you threw it away for love. What's love—to liberty?"
And every incentive which awakens the soul of honor in men appealed to him then. Behind him stood the destinies of a great people, the fate of a great cause; on him they trusted, upon his honor they had depended, and before him stood one woman. He saw her again as he had seen her before on the top of the hill on that memorable night in Virginia. What had she said?—
"If I stood in the pathway of liberty for one single instant, I should despise the man who would not sweep me aside without a moment's hesitation."
Oh, Katharine, Katharine, he groaned in spirit, pressing his hands upon his face in agony, while every breaking wave flung the words, "duty and honor," into his face, and every throb of his beating heart whispered "love—love."
CHAPTER XVII
An Incidental Passage at Arms
There were two entrances to the channel, lying perhaps a half mile apart, the first the better and more practicable, and certainly, with the frigate rapidly drawing near, the safer. They were almost abreast of the first one now. Bentley, who had been observing him keenly, came up to him.
"We are almost abreast the first pass, Mr. Seymour," he said respectfully.
Seymour turned as if he had been struck. Was the decision already upon him? He could not make it.
"We—we will try the second, Bentley."
"Sir," said the old man, hesitating, and yet persisting, "the frigate is coming down fast; we may not be able to make the second pass."
"We will try the second, nevertheless," said the young man, imperatively.
"But, Mr. John—"
"Silence, sir! When have you bandied words with me before?" shouted
Seymour, in a passion of temper. "Go forward where you belong."
The old man looked at him steadily: "When, sir? Why, ever since I took you from your dead father's arms near a score of years ago. Oh, sir, I know what you feel, but you know what you must do. It's not for me to tell you your duty," said the old man, laying heavy emphasis upon that talismanic word "duty," which seems to appeal more powerfully to seamen than to any other class of men. "Love is a mighty thing, sir. I know it, yes, even I," he went on with rude eloquence, "ever since I took you when you were a little lad, and swore to watch over you, and care for you, and make a man of you—Ay, and I 've done it too—and the love of woman, they say, is stronger than the love of man, though of that I know nothing, but honor and duty are above love, sir; and upon your honor, and your doing your duty, our country depends. Yes, love of woman, Mr. Seymour, but before that love of country; and now," said the old man, mournfully, "after twenty years of—of friendship, if I may say it, you order me forward like a dog. But that's neither here nor there, if you only save the ship. Oh, Mr. John, in five minutes more you must decide. See," pointing to the frigate, "how she rises! Think of it. Think of it once more before you jeopard the safety of this ship for any woman. Honor, sir, and duty—it's laid upon you, you must do it—they come before everything."
Seymour looked at the old man tenderly, and then grasped him by the hand. "You are right, old friend. Forgive my rough words. I will do it. It kills me, but I will do it—the country first of all. O God, pity me and help me!" he cried.
"Amen," said Bentley, his face working with grief, yet iron in its determination and resolution.
Seymour turned on his heel and sprang aft, bringing his hand the while up to his heart. As he did so, his fingers instinctively went to the pocket of his waistcoat and sought the letter he carried there.
He took it out half mechanically and glanced at the familiar writing once more, when a sudden gust of wind snatched it out of his hand and blew it to the feet of Talbot.
"My letter!" cried Seymour, impulsively.
The soldier courteously stooped and picked it up and glanced down at the open scrap mechanically, as he extended his hand toward Seymour; then the next moment he cried,—
"Why, it's from Katharine!"
One unconscious inspection sufficed to put him in possession of the contents. "Where did you get this note, sir?" he exclaimed, his face flushing with jealousy and sudden suspicion; "it is mine, I am the one she loves. How came it in your possession?" he continued, in rising heat.
Seymour, already unstrung by the fearful strain he had gone through and the frightful decision he would have to make later on, nay, had made after Bentley's words, was in no mood to be catechized.
"I am not in the habit of answering such personal questions, sir. And
I recognize no right in you to so question me."
"Right, sir! I find a letter in your possession with words of love in it, from my betrothed, a note plainly meant for me, and which has been withheld. How comes it so?"
"And I repeat, sir, I have nothing to say except to demand the return of my letter instantly; it is mine, and I will have it."
"Do you not know, Mr. Seymour, that we have been pledged to each other since childhood, that we have been lovers, she is to be my wife? I love her and she loves me; explain this letter then."
"It is false, Mr. Talbot; she has pledged herself to me,—yes, sir, to me. I care nothing for your childish love-affairs. She is mine, if I may believe her words, as is the letter which you have basely read. You will return it to me at once, or I shall have it taken from you by force."
"I give you the lie, sir, here and now," shrieked Talbot, laying his hand upon his sword. "It is not true, she is mine; as for the note—I keep it!"
Seymour controlled himself by a violent effort, and looked around for some of his men. Wilton and Bentley had come aft in great anxiety, and the whole crew were looking eagerly at them, attracted by the aroused voices and the passionate attitude of the two men. For a moment the chase was forgotten.
"Oh, Hilary," said Philip, addressing his friend.
"Hush, Philip, this man insults your sister. I am defending her honor."
The lad hesitated a moment; discipline was strong in his young soul.
"That is my duty—Mr. Seymour," he said.
Seymour turned swiftly upon him. "What are you doing here, Mr. Wilton? All hands are called, are they not? Your station is on the forecastle, then, I believe," he said with deadly calm. "Oblige me by going forward at once, sir."
"Go, Philip," cried Talbot; "I can take care of this man."
"Aft here, two or three of you," continued Seymour, his usually even voice trembling a little. "Seize Lieutenant Talbot. Arrest him. Take his sword from him, and hand me the letter he has in his hand, and then confine him in his cabin."
Two or three of the seamen came running aft. Talbot whipped out his sword.
"The first man that touches me shall have this through his heart," he said fiercely. But the seamen would have made short work of him, if it had not been for the restraining hand of Bentley.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" he said.
"Out of the way, Bentley. You have changed my plans once. I will not be balked again. I am the captain of this ship, and I intend to be obeyed."
"'T is well that Mr. Seymour is on his ship and surrounded by his bullies. He dare not meet me man to man, sword to sword. Would we were on shore! You coward!" screamed Talbot, advancing toward him, "shall I strike you?"
"You will have it then, sir," said Seymour, at last giving way. "No man so speaks to me and lives. Back, men!" and white with passion and rage he drew his own sword and sprang forward. No less resolutely did Talbot meet him. Their blades crossed and rang against each other. Bentley wrung his hands in dreadful indecision, not knowing what to do; he dared not lay hands upon his superior officer, yet this combat must cease. But the fierce sword-play, both men being masters of the weapon, as was the habit of gentlemen of that day, was suddenly interrupted.
CHAPTER XVIII
Duty Wins the Game
A booming roar came down upon them from the frigate, which had fired a broadside, which was followed presently by the whistling of shot over their heads. Great rents were seen in the canvas, pieces of running gear fell to the deck, there was a crashing, rending sound, and a part of the rail, left standing abaft the mizzen shrouds, smashed into splinters and drove inboard under the impact of a heavy shot.
One splinter struck the man at the helm in the side; he fell with a shriek, and lay white and still by the side of the wheel, which, no longer restrained by his hand, spun round madly. Another splinter hit the sword of Talbot, breaking the blade and sweeping it from his hands, and the unlucky scrap of paper was blown into the sea. The spanker sheet was cut in two, and the boom swept out to windward, knocking one of the men overboard. There was neither time nor opportunity to pick him up, and he went to his death unheeded.
Seymour dropped his sword, every instinct of a sailor aroused, and sprang to the horse-block. The ship, left to itself, fell off rapidly before the wind. Bentley jumped to seize the helm.
"Flow the head sheets there!" cried the lieutenant; "lively! Aft here and haul in the spanker! Brail up the foresail! Down, hard down with the helm!"
There was another broadside from the heavy guns of the frigate. Talbot replied with his stern-chaser, and a cloud of splinters showed that the shot took effect, whereat the men at the gun cheered and loaded, and then crash went the mizzen topgallant mast above their heads!
"Lively, men!" shouted Seymour, "we must get on the wind again or we are lost."
"Breakers on the starboard bow!" shrieked the lookout on the forecastle suddenly. "Breakers on the port bow!" His voice ran aft in a shrill scream, fraught with terror, "Breakers ahead!"
"Down, hard down with the helm, Bentley," said Seymour, himself springing over to assist the old man at the wheel.
But Bentley raised his hand and kept the wheel steady. "Too late, sir, for that," he cried, "we are in the pass. God help us now, sir. Mr. Seymour, look to the ship, sir, look to the ship!"
The young officer sprang back on the horse-block, his soul filled with horror. So fate had decided for him at last, and duty, not love, had won the mighty game. A third broadside passed harmlessly over the ship, doing little damage, the rough weather making aiming uncertain. Again the field-piece replied. Seymour never turned his head in the direction of the frigate. He could not look upon the catastrophe; besides, the exigency of the situation demanded that he give his whole mind to conning the ship through the narrow pass. Bentley himself, assisted by a young sailor, kept the helm; the oldest seamen had charge of the braces. The wreck of the mizzen topgallant mast was allowed to hang for the present.
The white water dashed about the ship in sheets of foam; they were well in the breakers now, and the most ignorant eye could see the danger. One false movement meant disaster for the ship for whose safety Seymour had sacrificed so much. He did not make it. To his disordered fancy Katharine's white face looked up at him from every breaking wave. He steeled his heart and gave his orders with as much ease and precision as if it had been a practice cruise. To the day of his death he could not account for his ability to do so. He made a splendid figure, standing on the horse-block, his hair flowing out in the wind, his face deadly pale; calm, cool, steady; his voice clear and even, but heard in every part of the ship. The heart of the old sailor at the helm yearned toward him, and the seamen looked at him as if he had been a demigod. He never once looked back, but from the cries of the men he could follow every motion of the frigate behind him. The frigate, the unsuspicious frigate, had followed the course of the transport exactly, and was coming down to the deadly rocks like a hurricane.
Talbot, his quarrel forgotten for the moment, ceased firing, and stood, with all of the men who could be spared from their stations, looking aft at the tremendous drama being played.
"The frigate! Look at the frigate! She 's going to strike, sir!" cried one of the seamen, excitedly,—old Thompson, who had sailed upon her. "See, they see the breakers. Now there go the head yards. It won't do. It's too late. My God, she strikes, she strikes! I 'll have one more shot at her before she goes," he shrieked, taking hasty aim over the loaded field-piece and touching the priming. "Ay, and a hit too. Hurrah! hurrah! To h—l with ye, where you belong, ye—"
"Silence aft!" shouted Seymour, in a voice of thunder. "Keep fast that gun; and another cheer like that, and I put you in irons, Thompson."
The water in the front of the Mellish suddenly became darker, the breakers disappeared, the ship was in deep water again; she had the open sea before her, and was through the channel.
"We are through the pass, sir," said Bentley.
"I know it," answered Seymour, at last. "I suppose there is no use beating back around the shoal, Bentley?" he said tentatively.
"No, sir, no use; and besides in this wind we could not do it; and, sir, you know nothing will live in such a sea. Look at the Englishman now, sir."
The captain turned at last. The frigate was a hopeless wreck. All three of her masts had gone by the board; she had run full on the rocky ledge of the shoal at the mouth of the channel. The wind had risen until it blew a heavy gale; no boat, no human being, could live in such a sea. The waters rushed over her at every sweep, and she was fast breaking up before them. Night had fallen, and darkness at last enshrouded her as she faded out of view. A drop of snow fell lightly upon the cold cheek of the young sailor, and the men gazed into the night in silence, appalled by the awful catastrophe. Bentley, understanding it all, laid his hand lightly on Seymour's arm, saying softly,—
"Better clear the wreck and get the mizzen topsail and the fore and main sail in, sir, and reef the fore and main topsails; the spars are buckling fearfully. She can't stand much more."
"Oh, Bentley," he said with a sob, and then, mastering himself, he gave the necessary orders to clear away the wreck and take in the other sails, and close reef the topsails, in order to put the ship in proper trim for the rising storm; after which, the wind now permitting, the ship was headed for Philadelphia.
As Seymour turned to go below, he came face to face with Talbot. The two men stood gazing at each other in silence.
"We still have an account to settle, Mr. Talbot," he said sternly.
"My God," said Talbot, hesitatingly, "was n't it awful? How small, Seymour, are our quarrels in the face of that!" pointing out into the darkness,—"such a tremendous catastrophe as that is."
Seymour looked at him curiously; the man had not yet fathomed the depth of the catastrophe to him, evidently.
"As for our quarrel," he continued in a manly, generous way, "I—perhaps I was wrong, Mr. Seymour. I know I was, but I have loved her all my life. I am sorry I spoke so, and I beg your pardon; but—won't you tell me about the note now?"
A great pity for the young man filled Seymour's heart in spite of his own sorrow. "I loved her too," he said quietly. "The note was sent to me from Gwynn's Island, where they were confined. I had offered myself to her the night of the raid,—just before it, in fact,—and she accepted me. The note was mine. Where is it?"
"Oh!" said Talbot, softly, lifting his hand to his throat, "and I loved her too, and she is yours. Forgive me, Seymour, you won her honorably. I was too confident,—a fool. The note is gone into the sea. We cannot quarrel about it now."
"There can be no quarrel between us now, Talbot. She is mine no more than she is yours. She—she—" He paused, choking. "She—"
"Oh, what is it? Speak, man," cried Talbot, in sudden fear which he could not explain. Philip Wilton had drawn near and was listening eagerly.
"That ship there—the Radnor, you know—is lost, and all on board of her must have perished long since."
"Yes, yes, it's awful; but what of that? what of Katharine?"
"Don't you remember the note? Colonel Wilton and she were on the
Radnor."
The strain of the last hour had undermined the nervous strength of the young soldier. He looked at Seymour, half dazed.
"It can't be," he murmured. "Why did you do it? How could you?" The world turned black before him. He reeled as if from a blow, and would have fallen if Seymour had not caught him. Philip strained his gaze out over the dark water.
"Oh, my father, my father!" he cried. "Mr. Seymour, is there no hope, no chance?"
"None whatever, my boy; they are gone."
"Oh, Katharine, Katharine! Why did you do it, Seymour?" said Talbot, again.
Seymour turned away in silence. He could not reply; now that it was done, he had no reason.
The dim light from the binnacle lantern fell on the face of Bentley; tears were standing in the old man's eyes as he looked at them, and he said slowly, as if in response to Talbot's question,—
"For love of country, gentlemen."
And this, again, is war upon the sea!
BOOK III
THE LION AT BAY
CHAPTER XIX
The Port of Philadelphia
The day before Christmas, the warden of the port of Philadelphia, standing glass in hand on one of the wharves, noticed a strange vessel slowly coming up the bay. This in itself was not an unusual sight. Many vessels during the course of a year arrived at, or departed from, the chief city of the American continent. Not so many small traders or coasting-vessels or ponderous East Indiamen, perhaps, as in the busy times of peace before the war began; but their place was taken by privateers and their prizes, or a ship from France, bringing large consignments of war material from the famous house of Rodrigo Hortalez & Co., of which the versatile and ingenuous [Transcriber's note: ingenious?] M. de Beaumarchais was the deus ex machina; and once in a while one of the few ships of war of the Continental navy, or some of the galleys or gunboats of Commodore Hazelwood's Pennsylvania State defence fleet. But the approaching ship was evidently neither a privateer nor a vessel of war, neither did she present the appearance of a peaceful merchantman. There was something curious and noteworthy in her aspect which excited the attention of the port warden, and then of the loungers along Front Street and the wharves, and speedily communicated itself to the citizens of the town, so that they began to hasten down to the river, in the cold of the late afternoon. Finally, no less a person than the military commander of the city himself appeared, followed by one or two aids, and attended by various bewigged and beruffled gentlemen of condition and substance; among whose finery the black coat of a clergyman and the sober attire of many of the thrifty Quakers were conspicuous. Here and there the crowd was lightened by the uniform of a militiaman or home guard, or the faded buff and blue of some invalid or wounded Continental. In the doorways of some of the spacious residences facing the river, many of the fair dames for which Philadelphia was justly famous noted eagerly the approaching ship. As she came slowly up against the ebb tide, it was seen that her bulwarks had been cut away, all her boats but one appeared to be lost, her mizzen topgallant mast was gone, several great patches in her sails also attracted attention; there too was a field-piece mounted and lashed on the quarter-deck as a stern-chaser. The fore royal was furled, and two flags were hanging limply from the masthead; the light breeze from time to time fluttering them a little, but not sufficiently to disclose what they were, until just opposite High Street, where she dropped her only remaining anchor, when a sudden gust of wind lifted the two flags before the anxious spectators, who saw that one was a British and the other their own ensign. As soon as the eager watchers grasped the fact that the red cross of St. George was beneath the stars and stripes, they broke into spontaneous cheers of rejoicing. Immediately after, the field-gun on the quarterdeck was fired, and the report reverberated over the water and across the island on the one side, and through the streets of the town on the other, with sufficient volume to call every belated and idle citizen to the river-front at once.
Immediately after, a small boat was dropped into the water and manned by four stout seamen, into which two officers rapidly descended,—one in the uniform of a soldier, and the other in naval attire. When they reached the wharf at the foot of High Street, they found themselves confronted by an excited, shouting mass of anxious men, eager to hear the news they were without doubt bringing.
"It's Lieutenant Seymour!" cried one.
"Yes, he went off in the Ranger about two weeks ago," answered another.
"So he did. I wonder where the Ranger is now?"
"Who is the one next to him?" said a third.
"That's the young Continental from General Washington's staff, who went with them," answered a fourth voice.
"Back, gentlemen, back!"
"Way for the general commanding the town!"
"Here, men, don't crowd this way on the honorable committee of Congress!" cried one and another, as a stout, burly, red-faced, honest, genial-looking man, whose uniform of a general officer could not disguise his plain farmer-like appearance, attended by two or three staff-officers and followed by several white-wigged gentlemen of great dignity, the rich attire and the evident respect in which they were held proclaiming them the committee of Congress, slowly forced their way through the crowd.
"Now, sir," cried the general officer to the two men who had stepped out on the wharf, "what ship is that? We are prepared for good news, seeing those two flags, and the Lord knows we need it."
"That is the transport Mellish, sir; a prize of the American
Continental ship Ranger, Captain John Paul Jones."
"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried the crowd, which had eagerly pressed near to hear the news.
"Good, good!" replied the general. "I congratulate you. How is the
Ranger?"
"We left her about one hundred leagues off Cape Sable about a week ago; she had just sunk the British sloop of war Juno, twenty-two guns, after a night action of about forty minutes. We left the Ranger bound for France, and apparently not much injured."
"What! what! God bless me, young men, you don't mean it! Sunk her, did you say, and in forty minutes! Gentlemen, gentlemen, do you hear that? Three cheers for Captain John Paul Jones!"
Just then one of the committee of Congress, and evidently its chairman,—a man whose probity and honor shone out from his open pleasant face,—interrupted,—
"But tell me, young sir,—Lieutenant Seymour of the navy, is it not? Ah, I thought so. What is her lading? Is it the transport we have hoped for?"
"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Talbot here has her bills of lading and her manifest also."
"Where is it, Mr. Talbot?" interrupted the officer; "let me see it, sir. I am General Putnam, in command of the city."
The general took the paper in his eagerness, but as he had neglected to bring his glasses with him, he was unable to read it.
"Here, here," he cried impatiently, handing it back, "read it yourself, or, better, tell us quickly what it is."
"Two thousand stand of arms, twenty field-pieces, powder, shot, and other munitions of war, ten thousand suits of winter clothes, blankets, shoes, Colonel Seaton and three officers and fifty men of the Seaforth Highlanders and their baggage, all en route for Quebec," said Talbot, promptly.
The crowd was one seething mass of excitement. Robert Morris turned about, and lifting his hat from his head waved it high in the air amid frantic cheers. Putnam and his officers and the other gentlemen of the committee of Congress seized the hands of the two young officers in hearty congratulation.
"But there is something still more to tell," cried Mr. Morris; "your ship, her battered and dismantled condition, the rents in the sails—you were chased?"
"Yes, sir," replied Seymour, "and nearly recaptured. We escaped, however, through a narrow channel extending across George's Shoal off Cape Cod, with which I was familiar; and the English ship, pursuing recklessly, ran upon the shoal in a gale of wind and was wrecked, lost with all on board."
"Is it possible, sir, is it possible? Did you find out the name of the ship?"
"Yes, sir; one of our seamen who had served aboard her recognized her.
She was the Radnor, thirty-six guns."
"That's the ship that Lord Dunmore is reported to have returned to Europe in," said Mr. Clymer, another member of the committee. A shudder passed over the two young men at this confirmation of their misfortunes. Seymour continued with great gravity,—
"We have reason to believe that some one else in whom you have deeper interest than in Lord Dunmore was on board of her,—Colonel Wilton, one of our commissioners to France, and his daughter also. They must have perished with the rest."
There was a moment of silence, as the full extent of this calamity was made known to the multitude, and then a clergyman was seen pushing his way nearer to them.
"What! Mr. Seymour! How do you do, sir? Did I understand you to say that all the company of that English ship perished?"
"Yes, Dr. White."
"And Colonel Wilton and his daughter also?"
"Alas, yes, sir."
"I fear that it is as our young friend says," added Robert Morris, gloomily. "I remember they were to go with Dunmore."
"Oh, Mr. Morris, our poor friends! Shocking, shocking, dreadful!" ejaculated the saintly-looking man; "these are the horrors of war;" and then turning to the multitude, he said: "Gentlemen, people, and friends, it is Christmas eve. We have our usual services at Christ Church in a short time. Shall we not then return thanks to the Giver of all victory for this signal manifestation of His Providence at this dark hour, and at the same time pray for our bereaved friends, and also for the widows and orphans of those of our enemies who have been so suddenly brought before their Maker? I do earnestly invite you all to God's house in His name."
The chime of old Christ Church ringing from the steeple near by seemed to second, in musical tones, the good man's invitation, as he turned and walked away, followed by a number of the citizens of the town. General Putnam, however, engaged Talbot in conversation about the disposition of the stores, while Robert Morris continued his inquiries as to the details of the cruise with Seymour. The perilous situation of the shattered American army was outlined to both of them, and Talbot received orders, or permission rather, to report the capture of the transport to General Washington the next day. Seymour asked permission to accompany him, which was readily granted.
"If you do not get a captain's commission for this, Mr. Talbot," continued Putnam, as they bade him good-night, "I shall be much disappointed."
"And if you do not find a captain's commission also waiting for you on your return here, Lieutenant Seymour, I shall also be much surprised," added Robert Morris.
"Give my regards to his excellency, and wish him a merry Christmas from me, and tell him that he has our best hopes for success in his new enterprise. I will detach six hundred men from Philadelphia, to-morrow, to make a diversion in his behalf," said the general.
"Yes," continued Robert Morris, "and I shall be obliged, Lieutenant Seymour, if you will call at my house before you start, and get a small bag of money which I shall give you to hand to General Washington, with my compliments. Tell him it is all I can raise at present, and that I am ashamed to send him so pitiable a sum; but if he will call upon me again, I shall, I trust, do better next time."
Bidding each other adieu, the four gentlemen separated, General Putnam to arrange for the distribution and forwarding of the supplies to the troops at once; Robert Morris to send a report to the Congress, which had retreated to Baltimore upon the approach of Howe and Cornwallis through the Jerseys; and Seymour and Talbot back to the ship to make necessary arrangements for their departure.
Seymour shortly afterward turned the command of the Mellish over to the officer Mr. Morris designated as his successor; and Talbot delivered his schedule to the officer appointed by General Putnam to receive it. Refusing the many pressing invitations to stay and dine, or partake of the other bounteous hospitality of the townspeople, the young men passed the night quietly with Seymour's aunt, his only relative, and at four o'clock on Christmas morning, accompanied by Bentley and Talbot, they set forth upon their long cold ride to Washington's camp,—a ride which was to extend very much farther, however, and be fraught with greater consequences than any of them dreamed of, as they set forth with sad hearts upon their journey.
CHAPTER XX
A Winter Camp
About half after one o'clock in the afternoon of Wednesday, December 25th, being Christmas day, and very cold, four tired horsemen, on jaded steeds, rode up to a plain stone farmhouse standing at the junction of two common country roads, both of which led to the Delaware River, a mile or so away. In the clearing back of the house a few wretched tents indicated a bivouac. Some shivering horses were picketed under a rude shelter, formed by interlacing branches between the trunks of a little grove of thickly growing trees which had been left standing as a wind-break. Bright fires blazed in front of the tents, and the men who occupied them were enjoying an unusually hearty meal. The faded uniforms of the men were tattered and torn; some of the soldiers were almost barefoot, wearing wretched apologies for shoes, which had been supplemented when practicable by bits of cloth tied about the soles of the feet. The men themselves were gaunt and haggard. Privation, exposure, and hard fighting had left a bitter mark upon them. Hunger and cold and wounds had wrestled with them, and they bore the indelible imprint of the awful conflict upon their faces. It was greatly to their credit that, like their leader, they had not yet despaired. A movement of some sort was evidently in preparation; arms were being looked to carefully, haversacks and pockets were being filled with the rude fare of which they had been thankful to partake as a Christmas dinner; ammunition was being prepared for transportation; those who had them were wrapping the remains of tattered blankets about them, under the straps of their guns or other equipments; and the fortunate possessors of the ragged adjuncts to shoes were putting final touches to them, with a futile hope that they would last beyond the first mile or two of the march; others were saddling and rubbing down the horses.
A welcome contribution had been made to their fare in a huge steaming bowl of hot punch, which had been sent from the farmhouse, and of which they had eagerly partaken.
"What's up now, I wonder?" said one ragged veteran to another.
"Don't know—don't care—couldn't anything be worse than this," was the reply.
"We 've marched and fought and got beaten, and marched and fought and got beaten again, and retreated and retreated until there is nothing left of us. Look at us," he continued, "half naked, half starved, and we 're the best of the lot, the select force, the picked men, the head-quarters guard!" he went on in bitter sarcasm.
"Yes, that 's so," replied the other, laughing; then, sadly, "Those poor fellows by the river are worse off than we are, though. What would n't they give for some of that punch? My soul, wasn't it good!" he continued, smacking his lips in recollection.
"Where are we going, sergeant?" asked another.
"Don't know; the command is, 'Three days' rations and light marching order.'"
"Well, we're all of the last, anyway. Look at me! No stockings, leggings torn, no shirt; and you'd scarcely call this thing on my back a coat, would you? What could be lighter? So comfortable, too, in this pleasant summer weather!"
"Oh, shut up, old man; you 're better off than I am, anyway; you've got rags to help your shoes out, and just look at mine," said another, sticking out a gaunt leg with a tattered shoe on the foot, every toe of which was plainly visible through the torn and worn openings. "And just look at this," he went on, bringing his foot down hard on the snow-covered, frost-bound soil, making an imprint which was edged with blood from his wounded, bruised, unprotected feet. "That's my sign-manual; and it 's not hard to duplicate in the army yonder, either."
"That's true; and to think that the cause of liberty's got down so low that we are its only dependence. And they call us the grand army!"
"Well, as you say," went on another, recklessly, "we can't get into anything worse, so hurrah for the next move, say I."
"Three days' rations and light marching order, meaning, I suppose, that we are to leave our heavy overcoats and blankets and foot stoves and such other luxuries behind; that rather indicates that we are going to do something besides retreat; and I should like to get a whack at those mercenary Dutchmen before I freeze or starve," was the reply.
"Bully for you!"
"I'm with you, old man."
"I, too."
"And I," came from the group of undaunted men surrounding the speaker.
"And to think," said another, "of its being Christmas day, and all those little children at home—oh, well," turning away and wiping his eyes, "marching and fighting may make us forget, boys. I wouldn't mind suffering for liberty, if we could only do something, have something to show for it but a bloody trail and a story of defeat. I 'm tired of it," he continued desperately. "I 'd fight the whole British army if they would only let me get a chance at them."
"We're all with you there, man, and I guess this time we get a chance," replied one of the speakers, amid a chorus of approval which showed the spirit of the men.
While the men were talking among themselves thus, the four riders on the tired horses had ridden up to the farmhouse. A soldier dressed no better than the rest stood before the door.
"Halt! Who are you?" he cried, presenting his musket.
"Friends. Officers from Philadelphia, with messages for his excellency," replied the foremost. "Don't you recognize me, my man?"
"Why, it's Lieutenant Talbot! Pass in, sir, and these other gentlemen with you," answered the soldier, saluting. "It's glad the general will be to see you."
Without further preliminaries the young man opened the door and entered, followed by his three companions. A cheerful fire of logs was blazing and crackling in the wide fireplace in the long low room. On the table before it stood a great bowl of steaming punch, and several officers were sitting or standing about the room in various positions. The uniforms of all save that of one of them were scarcely less worn and faded, if not quite so tattered, than were those of the escort; the same grim enemies had left the same grim marks upon them as upon the soldiers. The only well-dressed person in the room was a bright-eyed young man, a mere boy, just nineteen, wearing the brilliant uniform of an officer of the French army. He was tall and thin, red-haired, with a long nose and retreating forehead; his bright eyes and animated manner expressed the interest he felt in a conversation carried on in the French language with his nearest neighbor, another young man scarcely a year his senior. The contrast between the new and gay French uniform of the one and the faded Continental dress of the other was not less startling than that suggested by the difference in their size. The American officer was a small, a very small man; but, in spite of his insignificant stature, the whole impression of the man was striking, and even imposing. In contrast to the other, his face was very handsome, the head finely shaped, the features clear-cut and regular; he had a decisive mouth, bespeaking resolution and firmness, and two piercing eyes out of which looked a will as hard and imperious as ever dwelt in mortal man.
In front of the fire were two older men, each in the uniform of a general officer, one of thirty-five or six years of age, the other perhaps ten years older. The younger of the two, a full-faced, intelligent, active, commanding sort of man, whose appearance indicated confidence in himself, and the light of whose alert blue eyes told of dashing brilliancy in action and prompt decision in perilous moments, which made him one of those who succeed, would have been more noticed had not his personality been so overshadowed by that of the officer who was speaking to him. The latter was possessed of a figure so tall that it dwarfed every other in the room: he was massively moulded, but well proportioned, with enormous hands and feet, and long, powerful limbs, which indicated great physical force, and having withal an erect and noble carriage, easy and graceful in appearance, which would have immediately attracted attention anywhere, even if his face had not been more striking than his figure. He had a most noble head, well proportioned, and set upon a beautiful neck, with the brow broad and high, the nose large and strong and slightly aquiline; his large mouth, even in repose, was set in a firm, tense, straight line, with the lips so tightly closed from the pressure of the massive jaws as to present an appearance almost painful, the expression of it bespeaking indomitable resolution and unbending determination; his eyes were a grayish blue, steel-colored in fact, set wide apart, and deep in their sockets under heavy eyebrows. He wore his plentiful chestnut hair brushed back from his forehead, and tied with a black ribbon in a queue without powder, as was the custom in the army at this juncture,—a fashion of necessity, by the way; and his ruddy face was burned by sun and wind and exposure, and slightly, though not unpleasantly, marked with the smallpox.
There was in his whole aspect evidence of such strength and force and power, such human passion kept in control by relentless will, such attributes of command, that none looked upon him without awe; and the idlest jester, the lowest and most insubordinate soldier, subsided into silence before that noble personality, realizing the ineffable dignity of the man. The grandeur of that cause which perhaps even he scarcely realized while he sustained it, looked out from his solemn eyes and was seen in the gravity of his bearing. His was the battle of the people of the future, and God had marked him deeply for His own. And yet it was a human man, too, and none of the immortal gods standing there. On occasion his laugh rang as loudly, or his heart beat as quickly as that of the most careless boy among his soldiers. He was fond of the good things of life too,—loving good wine, fair women, a well-told story, a good jest, pleasant society, and delighting in struggle and contest as well. He preserved habitually the just balance of his strong nature by the exercise of an unusual self-control, and he rarely allowed himself to step beyond that mean of true propriety, so well called the happy, except at long intervals through a violent outbreak of his passionate temper, rendered more terrible and blasting from its very infrequency. And this was the man upon whom was laid the burden of the war of the Revolution, and to whom, under God, were due the mighty results of that epoch-making contest. Seldom, if ever, do we see men of such rare qualities that when they leave their appointed places no other can be found to fill them; but if such a one ever did live, this was he.
CHAPTER XXI
The Boatswain Tells the Story
One or two other men were writing at a table, and another stalwart officer of rank was sitting by the fire reading. None of the four men coming into the room had seen the general before, except Talbot. As the door opened, his excellency glanced up inquiringly, and, recognizing the first figure, stepped forward quickly, extending his hand, all the other officers rising and drawing near at the same time.
"What, Talbot! I trust you bring good news, sir?"
"I do, sir," said the young officer, saluting.
"The transport?" said the general, in great anxiety.
"Captured, sir."
"Her lading?"
"Two thousand muskets, twenty field-pieces, powder, shot, intrenching tools, other munitions of war; ten thousand suits of winter clothes, blankets, and shoes; and four officers and fifty soldiers; all bound for Quebec, where the British army is assembling."
"Now Almighty God be praised!" exclaimed the general, with deep feeling. "From whence do you come now?"
"From Philadelphia, sir."
"Ah! You thought best to take your prize there instead of Boston. It was a risk, was it not? But now that you are there, it is better for us here. Who are your companions, sir? Pray present them to me."
"Lieutenant Seymour, sir, of the navy, who brought in the prize."
"Sir, I congratulate you. I am glad to see you."
"And this is Philip Wilton, a midshipman. I think you know him, general."
"Certainly I do; the son of my old friend the commissioner, Colonel Wilton of Virginia, now unhappily a prisoner. You are very welcome, my boy. And who is this other man, Talbot?"
"William Bentley, sir, bosun of the Ranger, at your honor's service," answered the seaman himself.
"Well, my man," said the general, smiling, "if the Ranger has many like you in her crew, she must show a formidable lot of men. I am glad to see you all. These are my staff, gentlemen, the members of my family, to whom I present you. General Greene, General Knox; and these two boys here are Captain Alexander Hamilton and the Marquis de La Fayette, a volunteer from France, who comes to serve our country without money or without price, for love of liberty. This is Major Harrison, this Captain Laurens, this Captain Morris of the Philadelphia troop, our only cavalry; they serve like the marquis, for love of liberty. I know not how I could dispense with them." The gentlemen mentioned bowed ceremoniously, and some of them shook hands with the new-comers.
"Billy," continued Washington, turning to his black servant, "I wish you to get something to eat for these gentlemen. It's only bread and meat that we can offer you, I am sorry to say; we are not living in a very luxurious style at present,—on rather short rations, on the contrary. But meanwhile you will take a glass of this excellent punch with us, and we will drink to a merry Christmas. Fill your glasses, gentlemen all. Your news is the first good news we have had for so long that we have almost forgot what good news is. It is certainly very pleasant for us, eh, gentlemen? Now give us some of the details of the capture of the transport. How was it? You, Mr. Seymour, are the sailor of the party; do you tell us about it."
Then, in that rude farmhouse among the hills on that bitter winter day, Seymour told the story of the sighting of the convoy, and the ruse by which the capture of the two ships had been effected, at which General Washington laughed heartily. Then he described in a graphic seamanlike way the wonderful night action; the capture of the Juno by the heroic captain of the Ranger, the successful escape of that ship from the frigate, and the sinking of the Juno. He was interrupted from time to time by exclamations and deep gasps of excitement from the officers crowding about him; even Billy bringing the dinner put it down unheeded, and listened with his eyes glistening. And then Seymour delivered Jones's message to General Washington.
"Wonderful man! wonderful man!" he said. "We shall hear of him, I think, in the English Channel; and the English also, which is more to the point. But your own ship—had you an eventless passage, Mr. Seymour? And, gentlemen, you look as solemn as if you were the bearers of bad news instead of good tidings, or had been retreating with us for the past six months. Thank goodness, that's about over tonight. Fill your glasses, gentlemen. 'T is Christmas day. Now for your own story. Did you meet an enemy's ship?"
"We did, sir.—Talbot, you tell the story."
"No, no, I cannot; 't is your part, Seymour."
Here, in the presence of friends, and friends who knew and loved Colonel Wilton and his daughter, neither of the young men felt equal to the tale. Each day brought home to them their bitter sorrow more powerfully than before, and each hour but deepened the anguish in their hearts.
"Why, what is this? What has happened? The transport is safe, you said," continued the general, in some anxiety. "What is it?"
"I can tell, if your honor pleases, sir," said the deep voice of
Bentley.
"Speak, man, speak."
"It happened this way, sir: we were off Cape Cod, heading northwest by west for Boston, about a week ago, close hauled on the starboard tack in a half gale of wind. Your honor knows what the starboard tack is?"
"Yes, yes, certainly; go on."
"When about three bells in the afternoon watch,—your honor knows what three bells—Ay, ay, sir," continued the seaman, noting the general's impatient nod. "Well, sir, we spied a large sail coming down on us fast; we ran off free, she following. Pretty soon we made her out a frigate, a heavy frigate of thirty-six guns, and a fast one too, for she rapidly overhauled us. We cracked on sail, even setting the topmast stunsail, till it blew away. Then we cut away bulwarks and rails, flattened the sails by jiggers on the sheets and halliards until they set like boards, pumped her out, cast adrift the boats, cut away anchors, but it was n't any use; she kept a-gaining on us. By and by we came to George's Shoal extending about three leagues across our course to the southeast of Cape Cod. There is a pass through the shoal; Lieutenant Seymour knows it, we surveyed it this last summer. We brought the ship to on the wind on the same tack again, near the shoal, and ran for the mouth of the pass. The frigate edged off to run us down. Lieutenant Talbot broke out a field-piece from the hold and mounted it as a stern-chaser, and used it too—"
"Good! well done!" said the general, nodding approvingly. "Go on."
"We came to the mouth of the pass. The frigate fired a broadside. One shot carried away the mizzen topgallant mast; another sent a shower of splinters inboard, killing the man at the wheel. The ship falls off and enters the pass. I seize the helm. Mr. Seymour conned us through. The frigate chased madly after us. She sees the breakers; she can't follow us, draws too much water; she makes an effort to back off. It is too late; she strikes. The wind rises to a heavy gale. We see her go to pieces, and never a soul left to tell the story, never a plank of her that hangs together. She's gone, and we go free. That's all, your honor, and may God have mercy on their souls, say I," added the solemn voice of the boatswain in the silence.
"A frightful catastrophe, indeed, and a terrible one! I do not wonder at your sadness. But, young gentlemen, do not take it so to heart. It is the fate of war, and war is always frightful."
"Did you find out the name of the ship, boatswain?" asked General
Greene.
"Yes, your honor; the Radnor, thirty-six."
"Could no one have been saved?" queried General Knox.
"No one, sir. No boat could have lived in that sea a moment. We could n't put back, could do no good if we had, and so we came on to Philadelphia, and that's all."
"No, general," cried Seymour; "it's not all. We will tell the general the whole story, Talbot. You remember, sir, the raid on the Wilton place and the capture of the colonel and his daughter?" The general nodded. "Well, sir, before the Ranger sailed, I received a note from Miss Wilton saying they were to be sent to England in the Radnor."
"You received the note? I thought she was Mr. Talbot's betrothed, Mr.
Seymour!"
"I thought so too, general; but it seems that we are both wrong.
Lieutenant Seymour captured her during his visit there with Colonel
Wilton," said Talbot, with a faint smile.
"I am very sorry for you, Talbot, and you are a fortunate man, Mr. Seymour. But go on; we are all friends here. Did you say they were to go on the Radnor?"
"Yes, sir. The pursuing frigate was recognized by one of my men who had been pressed and flogged while on her, as the Radnor, the ship on which they were. I heard the man say so just as we neared the reef. To go through the pass was to lead the English ship to destruction and cause the death of those we—of the colonel, sir," continued Seymour, in some confusion. "To refrain from attempting the pass was to lose the ship and all it meant for our cause. I could not decide. I say frankly I could not condemn those I—our friends to death, and I could not lose the ship either. This old man knew it all. He has known me from a child. He spoke out boldly, and laid my duty before me, and pleaded with me—"
"He did not need it, your honor. No, sir; he would have done it anyway," interrupted Bentley.
The general took the hand of the embarrassed old boatswain and shook it warmly; then, fixing his glowing eyes upon the two young men, said,—
"Continue, Mr. Seymour."
"I know not what I might have done, but the old seaman's appeal to my honor decided me. I went aft with horror in my heart, but resolved to do my duty. On my way there I took out of my pocket the little note received from Miss Wilton; a gust of wind blew it to the hand of Mr. Talbot. It was only a line. As he picked it up, he read it involuntarily. We had some words. I drew on him, sir. It was my fault."
"No, no, general, the fault was mine!" interrupted Talbot. "I said it was my letter, refused to give it up, insulted him. He would have arrested me. Bentley and Philip interfered. I taunted him, advanced to strike him. He had to draw or be dishonored."
"Nay, general, but the fault was mine. I was the captain of the ship; the safety of the ship depended on me."
"Go on, go on, Mr. Seymour," said the general; "this dispute does honor to you both."
"The rest happened as has been told you. One of the splinters struck Mr. Talbot's sword and swept it into the sea; the note went with it, and then the frigate was wrecked, and Colonel Wilton and his daughter, with all the rest, lost."
It was very still in the room.
"My poor friend, my poor friend," murmured the general, "and that charming girl. Without a moment's warning! Young gentlemen," taking each of the young men by the hand, "I honor you. You have deserved well of our country,—for the frankness with which one of you admits his fault, for it was a fault, and takes the blame upon himself, and for the heroic resolution by which the other sacrifices his love for his duty. Laurens, make out a captain's commission for Mr. Talbot. Hamilton, I wish you would write out a general order declaring the capture of the transport and her lading, and the sinking of the Juno and the wreck of the English frigate; it will hearten the men for our enterprise to-night. As for you, Mr. Seymour, I shall use what little influence I may be able to exert to get you a ship at once; meantime, as we contemplate attacking the enemy at last, I shall be glad to offer you a position as volunteer on my staff for a few days, if your duties will permit. And to you, Philip, let me be a father indeed—my poor boy! As for you, boatswain, what can I do for you?"
"Nothing, your honor, nothing, sir. You have shaken me by the hand, and that's enough." The old man hesitated, and then, seeing only kindness in the general's face, for the old sailor attracted and pleased him, he went on softly: "Ay, love's a mighty thing, your honor; we knows it, we old men. And love of woman's strong, they say, but these boys have shown us that something else is stronger."
"And what is that, pray, my friend?"
"Love of country, sir," said Bentley, in the silence.