Madam Constantia

You no doubt are acquainted with the great attention and tenderness shown my son at Camden by all the British officers that he has seen, and the Gentlemen of the Faculty, as well as the maternal kindness of Mrs. Clay.

I was at Headquarters soon after nine in the morning. There are joints in the armor of all, the great have their bowels, and I have no doubt that had he told the truth, my lord would have given much to avoid me and my petition. But he did not try to do so, and in the spirit which now inspired me, I recognised the law under which we all lay. He, I, the man who must suffer, all moved in the clutch of remorseless duty, all were forced on by the mind that over-rode the body and its preferences.

Willing or unwilling, he met me with much kindness. “What is it, Craven?” he said. “But I fear, I very much fear that I know your errand.”

“If you could see me alone, my lord?” I said.

“Certainly I will.” He nodded to Haldane and in a moment we were left together.

I told him the story, all the story; and he heard me with sympathy. I have said that he was a man of my age, not yet thirty, but authority had given him force and decision, and the patience that goes with those qualities. “In Lord Cornwallis’s absence, it lies with you, my lord,” I concluded, when I had told my tale, “to confirm the finding and sentence. The man’s life is forfeit, I cannot deny it. I do not attempt to say otherwise. But the circumstances are such—he gave me my life, I am taking his—that I am compelled to put forward my own services and implore on my own account what I cannot ask, my lord, on his. If he were confined in the West Indies, for the duration of the war, or were sent to England—”

He stopped me. “My dear Craven, the thing is impossible,” he said gently. “Impossible! You must see that for yourself. In another man’s case you would see it. I should be unworthy of command, unworthy of the post I hold, unworthy of the obedience of the men whose lives are in my hands, if I listened to you! Frankly, I could not hold up my head if I did this. And that is not all,” he continued in a firmer tone. “I have news, by express this moment. Wemyss’s force has been repulsed, badly repulsed near Fishdam. He is wounded and a prisoner. The account that we have is confused, but it is certain that the enemy knew that the attack was coming and awaited it a gunshot behind their campfires; so that when our poor lads ran in they came under a heavy fire from the woods. I have not a doubt, therefore, that this man, Wilmer, had a confederate in the camp, and short as his time was, contrived to pass on tidings of the change of date.”

It was a home blow and I reeled under it. I had had little hope before; I had none now. Still I had made up my mind as to my duty, and I strove afresh to move him. He listened for a moment. Then he cut me short.

“No!” he replied, more curtly, “No! you have no case. The punishment of a spy is known, fixed, unalterable, Craven. It was carried out in the case of Major André, a hard, an extreme case. But it was carried out. This is a flagrant case. You ask an impossibility, man, and you ought to know it!”

“Then I will trouble your lordship for one moment only,” I said. “I have a duty to the King—I have discharged it by informing against Captain Wilmer; I have discharged it at great cost to myself. But I have a duty, also, to the man who saved my life at the price, as it has turned out, of his own! That duty I have not discharged until I have done all that it is in my power to do to save him. May I remind your lordship that my father has supported the government steadily and consistently in the House with two votes, and has never sought a return in place or pension. Were he here, I will answer for it, that he would not only indorse the request I make that this man’s life be spared, but that he would consider its allowance a full return for all his services in the past.”

“And, by God!” Rawdon replied, striking the table with his hand, “I would not grant that request, no, not if Lord North himself endorsed it, Major Craven. In his Excellency’s absence I command here, mine is the responsibility! I will not make that responsibility immeasurably more heavy, sir, by stooping to a weakness which must rob me, and rightly rob me, of the confidence of every soldier in the camp. I should deserve to be shot, if I did so! There, I have been patient, Craven—I have been patient because I know your position. I have given you a good hearing, but I can hear no more. The thing you ask is impossible. The man must suffer.”

“Then, my lord,” I replied, “I am compelled to take the only other step open to me. Since neither my own services nor my father’s are thought to be sufficient to entitle me to a thing which I have so much at heart, I beg leave to resign his Majesty’s commission. Here is my sword, my lord, and I no longer consider myself—”

“Stop!” he replied. “This is nonsense. D—d nonsense!” he continued angrily, “I’ll not allow you to resign. Take up your sword, Major Craven, or by G—d, I’ll put you under arrest!”

“You can do that, my lord,” I said, “if you please. I, for my part believe that I am only doing what honor requires of me.” And I turned on my heel, and, though he called me back, I went straight out of the room leaving my sword on the table. I believe the act was irregular, but it was the only way in which I could bear witness to the strength of my feelings.

I had taken in doing this what many would consider a foolish step; but I knew, too, that nothing short of this would acquit me in my own mind; and as I left the house I was at no pains to defend the step to myself. Haldane and the others, who were sitting under the trees before the door, looked at me as I came out, but taking the hint from my face, they let me pass without speech. Haldane went in immediately, and thinking that he might be ordered to carry out the Chief’s threat, I moved away down the street. Not that I cared whether I were placed under arrest or no; I was indifferent. But to remain before the house might be taken for a flouting of authority not in the best taste and beyond what I intended.

I had tried all that I could, and I had failed. There remained only one thing which I could do for Wilmer. I must see him. He might have something to say, some message to leave, some service I could perform at the last. I looked along the village street with its thronged roadway and its neat white houses peeping through foliage that blew to and fro tempestuously. The dust flew, and the flag above Headquarters leapt against its staff, for the morning though it was not cold was windy and overcast. As I looked down the road my eyes stopped at the tavern where Webster had his billet. It was nearly—not quite—opposite the house in which I knew that Wilmer was confined; and as I gazed, thinking somberly of the man whose fate had become bound up with mine, and whose last hours were passing so quickly, I saw a negro, bearing something covered with a cloth, go across the road from the tavern to the house. I guessed that he was taking Wilmer’s meal to him and I turned the other way. A later hour would suit my purpose better. We, English, whatever our faults may be, bear little rancor, and I had no doubt that even if I were put under arrest, I should be allowed to see the prisoner.

I passed idly along the street in the direction of Paton’s quarters. On either hand were loungers perched on the garden fences or leaning against them. The roadway was crowded with forage wagons driven by negro teamsters, with carts from the country laden with fruit and vegetables, with fatigue-parties passing at the double. Troopers rode by me in the green of the Legion or the blue of the Dragoons and everywhere were watchful natives and grinning blacks and women in sun-bonnets whose eyes little escaped. But my thoughts were elsewhere and my eyes roved over the scene and saw nothing, until my feet had borne me a good part of the way to Paton’s.

Then I saw her.

She and a negro were standing beside two horses from which they had just dismounted. A little circle of loiterers and busybodies had gathered round them and were eyeing them curiously and questioning them. The horses, jaded and over-ridden, hung their heads, and blew out their nostrils. The black, scared by his surroundings, glanced fearfully hither and thither—it was clear that he felt himself to be in the enemy’s camp. But Constantia showed no sign of fear, or of anything but fatigue. Her eyes travelled gravely round the circle, questioned, challenged, met admiration with pride. And yet—and yet, along with the grief and despair that reigned in her breast—that must have reigned there!—there must have lurked, also, some seed of woman’s weakness; for as her eyes, in leaping a gap in the circle, met mine and held them—and held them, so that for a moment I ceased to breathe—I felt her whole soul travel to me in appeal.

One thing was clear to me at once: that as yet she did not know the part I had played. For had she known it, her eyes instead of meeting mine would have shunned me, as if I had been the plague.

And that gave me courage. Heedless for the moment of what might ensue, or of what she must eventually learn, I pushed my way through the men, I uncovered, I reached her side. Then, on a nearer view, I saw the change that sorrow and fatigue had wrought in her. She was white as paper, and against the white her hair hung in black clinging masses on her cheeks. Her eyes shone out of dark circles, and her homespun habit was splashed with the mud of many leagues. With all this, I was able to address her, encouraged by her look, as simply as if I had parted from her an hour before—as if I had expected her and knew her plans. “My quarters are near here,” I said. “I will take you to them,” I added. That was all.

“Tell him,” she answered, with a glance at her attendant. She spoke as if, with all her courage, she had hardly strength to utter the words.

I did so, and the idlers about us, noting my rank, fell back. The crowd broke up. Tom—it was he—led the horses on. We followed, both silent. Forty yards brought us to the door of Paton’s house.

When we were inside, “Will you give me some wine?” she said.

I looked for the wine and as I did so, I was aware of Paton escaping from the room with a face of dismay. He recognized her, of course, but I had other things to do than to think of him. I found some Madeira and filled a large glass and gave it to her. She took a piece of bread from her pocket and ate a mouthful or two with the wine, sitting the while on a box with her eyes fixed on vacancy.

I have written down all that she said; and for my part I stood beside her, not venturing a word. The knowledge that she must presently learn all, and in particular must learn that it was I who had done this, I who had put the halter round her father’s neck, paralyzed my tongue. When she should have learned all, I could serve her no longer, I could do no more for her. It was not for me that her eyes would then seek, nor from my hand that she would take wine.

She set down the glass. “You will take me to Lord Rawdon,” she said.

I don’t know whether I had foreseen this; but at any rate I took it as a matter of course and made no demur. I suppose Paton heard her also, wherever he was, for immediately I found him at my elbow. “I’ll go on,” he muttered in my ear. “I’ll arrange it. But it’s the devil, it’s the very devil!”

He did not explain himself, but I knew that he meant it was hard, cruelly hard on us! As for her, she seemed to be unconscious of his presence.

When he had had five minutes start we set out. Already it had gone abroad who my companion was, as such things will spread in a camp, and a curious crowd stood waiting before the door; a crowd that in the circumstances—for Wemyss’s check was no longer a secret—could not but be hostile to Wilmer. But when she appeared, looking so proud and pale and composed—not even the wine had brought the faintest color to her cheeks—it was to the credit of our people that there was not a man who did not stand to attention and salute. Not a gibe or a taunt was heard, and I believe that the looks that followed us as we proceeded along the street, were laden with a rough but understanding pity.

Halfway she spoke to me, looking not at me but steadily to the front. “At what hour,” she asked with a shiver which she could not restrain, “is it to be?”

“Four o’clock,” I replied.

“And it is now?”

“Ten.”

A moment later, “I must see my lord alone,” she said.

“Yes, I understand,” I replied, and so occupied with the matter was I that, a moment later, unconscious of what I was doing, I met with a stony stare the astonished gaze of the Brigadier, who was riding by and drew to the side of the road as if he made way for a procession. “I will try to arrange it,” I continued with dry lips. “I have seen Lord Rawdon this morning. It was useless.” Then, “You mustn’t hope,” I muttered. “Don’t!”

She did not answer.

Outside Headquarters officers were loitering in a greater number than usual, drawn thither by the news of Wemyss’s defeat. I suppose that Paton had passed the word to them, as he went by, for those who were seated rose as we passed between them. Paton himself stood inside the door, talking urgently to Haldane whom he had taken by the button, and who reflected to perfection his face of dismay.

“This lady is Captain Wilmer’s daughter,” I said, as we came up to them. “She desires to see Lord Rawdon.”

Haldane seemed to have a difficulty in speaking. When he did, “His lordship will see her,” he said, looking not at her but at me. “He considers it to be his duty to do so, if the lady desires it. But I am ordered to say that she must draw no hope from the fact, Major Craven. I am instructed to impress upon her that an interview can do no good. If after that she still desires to see his lordship—”

Constantia bowed her head.

“You understand, Madam?” Haldane persisted. “You still desire it—in face of what I have said?”

She bent her head again. He turned on his heel, opened the door behind him and signed to her to enter the room. Then he closed the door upon her. By common consent we moved away and went outside. “Poor beggar!” Haldane muttered. “I wouldn’t be in his shoes at this moment for all his pay and appointments. Hanged if I would!” Then, “Curse the war, I say!”

“I say the same!” Paton replied, and twitching the other’s sleeve he drew him aside. They encountered and turned back some men who were moving towards us—I have no doubt to learn what was on foot.

I took my seat on the most remote bench on the left of the door, and apart from the crowd; and I waited. How long? I cannot say. I had no hope that the girl would succeed; I was in no suspense on that account. All my anxiety centered in another matter. When she came out she would have heard all from Rawdon. She would have learned the truth and my part in the story. Between them the facts must come out; they could not be hid. And then she would stand alone, quite alone in this strange camp, with four o’clock before her. How would she survive it? What would become of her? The sweat stood on my brow. I waited—waited, knowing that that must be the end of it.

I felt that I should be aware of her knowledge as soon as I saw her. She would feel by instinct where I had placed myself, and she would turn the other way. Or perhaps she would look at me once, and the horror in her eyes would wither me. So far there had been a strange mingling of sweet and bitter in the confidence which she had placed in me, in the way in which she had turned to me, trusted me, leant on me. But when she came out, knowing all, there would be an end of that.

Unheeding, I watched the traffic of the camp pass before me. I saw Carroll go by, and the officer who had presided at the court martial. Then Tom, the negro, passed, chattering in the company of two other blacks, one of them a teamster. Apparently he had plucked up courage and had found companions. They went towards the tavern. Next the Provost-Marshal appeared; he came towards us, but was waylaid by Haldane and Paton who entered into a heated argument with him—not far from me but just out of earshot. He seemed hard to persuade about something; he glanced my way, argued, hesitated. Finally he yielded and turned away, flinging a sharp sentence over his shoulder. Paton replied, there was a distant rejoinder. The Marshal disappeared down the road, shrugging his shoulders, as if he disclaimed—something.

A man near me laughed. Another said that Paton would get on.

The latter made an angry answer, looking at me. I did not understand. I was waiting. Would she never come? Was it possible that he was listening to her? That he would—

Here was the Provost-Marshal returning anew. Apparently he had thought better of it, for his face was hard with purpose. But again Haldane and Paton met him. They assailed him, argued with him, almost buffeted him; finally they took him by the arms, turned him about, and marched him off. A ripple of laughter ran along the benches. “As good as a play!” some one said. I did not understand. Surely she must come soon.

Yes, she was coming at last. I caught the tinkle of a hand-bell, the sentry stood at attention, Haldane hurried into the house. I rose.

She came out and, thank God, she did not know. She did not know, for her eyes sought mine, she turned towards me. She even gave me a pitiful shadow of a smile, as if, after wading through deep waters, she saw land ahead. I went to her. The men about us rose and remained standing as we walked away together. She turned in the direction of my quarters.

I did not dare to question her and we had gone some distance before she broke the silence. Then she told me, still looking straight before her and speaking with the same unnatural calm, that Lord Rawdon had respited the sentence for twenty-four hours to enable her to carry an appeal to Lord Cornwallis. But that he had not given her the smallest hope that the sentence would be altered. He had impressed this upon her almost harshly.

“But His Excellency is at Charles Town!” I protested, dumbfounded by this suggestion of the impossible. “You cannot go to Charles Town, and return in twenty-four hours!”

“He is at the Santee High Hills,” she answered. Her tone implied that she had known this and had not learned it from Lord Rawdon. Then in a dry hard voice she explained that she was to be allowed to see her father at three o’clock. She would start an hour later.

“For the High Hills?”

“Yes.”

“But you will die of fatigue,” I cried. “If you are to do this you must rest and eat.” I knew that she had ridden sixty miles in the last thirty-six hours and had done it under the stress of intense emotion.

She assented, saying meekly that she would do as I thought best. Then, as we entered, “You will come with me?” she said. And with that she turned to me, and looked at me with something of the old challenge in her eyes, looked as one not asking a favor, so much as demanding a right. Or, if the look did not mean that I was unable to say what it meant, beyond this, that it gave me a sort of shock. It was as if she had shown a different face for a moment. Had she known the truth, then she might have looked at me in such a fashion. But in that case she would not have asked me to go with her, I was sure of that.

Still the look was disturbing, and I hesitated. I reflected that her father would tell her the truth; that before four o’clock she would learn all. In the meantime, however, I could be of use to her, I could save her from some trials. And so “Certainly I will go,” I said, “if you wish it. If you still wish it, when the time comes.”

“Thank you,” she answered wearily. “I do wish it—and you owe us as much as that.”

“I owe you—”

She stopped me, raising her hand. “I cannot take Tom,” she continued, “for reasons. And the horses? Will you arrange about them? I am—I am very tired.” She turned her back on me, and with a weary sigh she sat down.

I told her that I would do everything and see to everything, and I hastened away to find the woman on whom we were quartered. I had a meal prepared, and Paton’s room made ready, and water brought and brushes and soap. To do this, to do anything relieved my pent-up feelings, yet while I went about the task, the look that she had given me, when she had asked me to go with her, haunted me. What did it mean? It had impressed itself unpleasantly upon me as at variance with the rest of her conduct, with her confidence, her docility, her dependence on me. For in other matters she had turned to me as a helpless child might turn; and though her acts proved that she had a course of action marked out, and was following that course, her manner would have appealed to a heart of stone.

Presently I was aware of Paton looking in to the room with the same scared face. He beckoned me to him. “You will want horses, won’t you?” he whispered.

“Yes,” I said.

“How many?”

“Two,” I said. “Good ones.”

“I’ll arrange it,” he answered. “Leave it to me and stay where you are. At what time?”

“Four,” I said.

He went away. The next to appear was Tom, who talked with his mistress for some minutes while I was above stairs, making ready for the journey. Presently he departed. By that time the hasty meal I had ordered was laid and I induced her to sit down to it, while I waited on her. Need I say that then, more than ever, the strangeness of the relations between us came home to me? That she should be here, in my room, in my care, eating an ordinary meal while I attended on her, handed her this or that, and caught now and again the sad smile with which she thanked me—could anything exceed the marvel of it? Her trust in me, the intimacy of it, the silence—for she rarely spoke—all increased the air of unreality; an unreality so great that when the meal was finished and she went to Paton’s room to lie down and rest, it had scarcely seemed out of the question had I gone in with her, covered her, and tucked her up!

After that, through three hours of stillness and silence I kept guard in the outer room, staring at the door behind which she lay; and love and pity choked me, and swelled my heart to bursting. How was she suffering! How was she doomed to suffer! What a night and a day were before her! What horror, what despair! For her father was all the world to her. He was all that she had. I could only pray that the exertions she was making, the fatigue that she was enduring, the pains of endless journeys would dull the shock when it came, and that she would not be able to feel or to suffer or to hate as at other times.

I believe that during these hours Paton kept guard outside, and warned off the curious. For no one came near us, and all the sounds of the camp seemed dull and distant and we two alone in the world, until a little before three o’clock. Then Tom returned. I had made a note that he must be kept at hand, since she would need him to go with her in my place when she knew all—as she must know all after she had seen her father.

I cautioned him as to this, but the man demurred. “Marse, I’m feared ter do it,” he said, showing the whites of his eyes in his earnestness. “Madam ’Stantia, she ordered me ter stay yer. En I’m tired, Marse. I’m en ole nigger en dis jurney’s shuk me. Fer sho’ it has.”

“But you rogue, your mistress!”

“I ’bliged ter stay, Marse,” he repeated doggedly. “Dis nigger’s mighty tired.”

I should have insisted, but the girl had heard his voice and summoned him. She opened her door and he went into the inner room. They talked there for some minutes, while I fretted over this new difficulty. Presently the black came out but she still remained within, and did not follow him for five long minutes. When she came I saw a change in her. Her eyes were bright, and each white cheek had its scarlet patch. She looked like a person in a fever, or on the edge of delirium. What the wine had not done, something else had effected.

“Tom had better be ready to ride with us,” I said.

“No,” she answered. “It will not be necessary. I wish him to stay here.”

She spoke with so much decision that I could not contest the point, and we set off towards Wilmer’s prison. All that I remember of our progress is that once we had to stand aside while a wing of the 23rd marched by; and that once we ran into a knot of blacks in front of the store. They were drunk and to my amazement refused to make way for us. My one arm did not avail much, but a couple of sergeants who were passing on the other side of the way crossed over and laying their canes about the rogues’ shoulders, sent them flying down the road. I thanked the two, they saluted the lady, and we went on.

That is all that I remember of our seven or eight minutes walk. My mind was bent on the old question—what she would do when she learned my part in the matter. Would she take Tom—doubtless with a little delay we could find him? Or would she travel alone, riding the thirty-five miles, many of them after night-fall, unaccompanied? Or—or what would she do? Then, and all the long minutes during which she was with her father in the house opposite the tavern—where a sentry at the front and back declared the importance of the prisoner—I turned this question over and over and inside and out. Webster’s quarters were at the tavern, a long low straggling building, set on a corner, with two fronts; and I might have entered and waited there. But nothing was farther from my mind. The thought of company, of the camp chatter, was abominable to me; and I paced up and down in a solitude which a glance at my face was enough to preserve.

She came out at last when my back was turned, and she reached my elbow unseen. “I am late,” she said. “We should be on horseback by this time, Major Craven. Let us lose no time, if you please.”

Surprised, I muttered assent, and I stole a look at her. Her eyes were bright, but with excitement not with tears. The patches of scarlet on her cheeks were more marked. I had expected to see her broken and pale with weeping; instead she was tense, borne up by the fever of some secret hope, more beautiful than I had ever seen her, more alive, more alert.

As for me I was now convinced that she knew all. Nay, enlightened at last, I saw that she must have known all from the start. Had she not foreseen that my coming boded ill? Had she not done all in her power to keep me at the Bluff? Had she not on that last evening strained all to detain me? Yes, she had known; and only my obtuseness, only the astonishing way in which she had placed herself in my hands and made use of me, had blinded me to the truth.

And plainly, she was content to go with me and to use me still. I might fancy if I chose, that she forgave me, but I did not dare to think so. There was a hardness in her eyes, a challenge in her voice, a reserve in her bearing as she walked beside me, silent and proud, that I misdoubted. And how could she forgive me? To her I was her father’s murderer, a monster of ingratitude, a portent of falseness. She could not forgive. Enough that she did not flinch from me, that she was ready to bear with me, that she was willing to use me a little longer.

We found the horses standing before the door at Paton’s quarters, and Tom with them. She bade the black farewell, after a few words aside with him, and ten minutes later we took the road on what I, for my part, knew to be a hopeless mission. Still it would serve, for it would help to pass these fatal hours; and afterwards she might comfort herself with the remembrance that she had done all in her power, that she had spent herself without stint or mercy in her father’s service.

My latest impression of Winsboro’, as I looked back before I settled myself in the saddle, was of Paton engaged in a last desperate argument with the Provost-Marshal. Only then did it occur to me that the unfortunate Marshal had had orders to place me under arrest and had been all day held at bay by my friend’s good offices.