THE LOVERS AND SOLOMON'S LAST FIGHT
Meanwhile, Margaret and her mother had come up the river in a barge
with General and Mrs. Arnold to the house of the latter. Jack had gone
out on a tour of inspection. He had left headquarters after the noon
meal with a curious message in his pocket and a feeling of great
relief. The message had been delivered to him by the mother of a
captain in one of the regiments. She said that it had been given to
her by a man whom she did not know. Jack had been busy when it came
and did not open it until she had gone away. It was an astonishing and
most welcome message in the flowing script of a rapid penman, but
clearly legible. It was without date and very brief. These were the
cheering words in it:
"MY DEAR FRIEND: I have good news from down the river. The danger is
passed.
"HENRY THORNHILL."
"Well, Henry Thornhill is a man who knows whereof he speaks," the young
officer said to himself, as he rode away. "I should like to meet him
again."
That day the phrase "Good news from down the river" came repeatedly
back to him. He wondered what it meant.
Jack being out of camp, Margaret had found Solomon. Toward the day's
end he had gone out on the south road with the young lady and her
mother and Mrs. Arnold.
Jack was riding into camp from an outpost of the army. The day was in
its twilight. He had been riding fast. He pulled up his horse as he
approached a sentry post. Three figures were standing in the dusky
road.
"Halt! Who comes there?" one of them sang out.
It was the voice of Margaret. Its challenge was more like a phrase of
music than a demand. He dismounted.
"I am one of the great army of lovers," said he.
"Advance and give the countersign," she commanded.
A moment he held her in his embrace and then he whispered: "I love you."
"The countersign is correct, but before I let you pass, give me one
more look into your heart."
"As many as you like--but--why?"
"So I may be sure that you do not blame England for the folly of her
King."
"I swear it."
"Then I shall enlist with you against the tyrant. He has never been my
King."
Lady Hare stood with Mrs. Arnold near the lovers.
"I too demand the countersign," said the latter.
"And much goes with it," said the young man as he kissed her, and then
he embraced the mother of his sweetheart and added:
"I hope that you are also to enlist with us."
"No, I am to leave my little rebel with you and return to New York."
Solomon, who had stood back in the edge of the bush, approached them
and said to Lady Hare:
"I guess if the truth was known, they's more rebels in England than
thar be in Ameriky."
He turned to Jack and added:
"My son, you're a reg'lar Tory privateer--grabbin' for gold. Give 'em
one a piece fer me."
Margaret ran upon the old scout and kissed his bearded cheek.
"Reg'lar lightnin' hurler!" said he. "Soon as this 'ere war is over
I'll take a bee line fer hum--you hear to me. This makes me sick o'
fightin'."
"Will you give me a ride?" Margaret asked her lover. "I'll get on
behind you."
Solomon took off the saddle and tightened the blanket girth.
"Thar, 'tain't over clean, but now ye kin both ride," said he.
Soon the two were riding, she in front, as they had ridden long before
through the shady, mallowed bush in Tryon County.
"Oh, that we could hear the thrush's song again!"
"I can hear it sounding through the years," he answered. "As life goes
on with me I hear many an echo from the days of my youth."
They rode a while in silence as the night fell.
"Again the night is beautiful!" she exclaimed.
"But now it is the beauty of the night and the stars," he answered.
"How they glow!"
"I think it is because the light of the future is shining on them."
"It is the light of peace and happiness. I am glad to be free."
"Soon your people shall be free," he answered her.
"My people?"
"Yes."
"Is the American army strong enough to do it?"
"No."
"The French?"
"No."
"Who then is to free us?"
"God and His ocean and His hills and forests and rivers and these
children of His in America, who have been schooled to know their
rights. After this King is broken there will be no other like him in
England."
They dismounted at Arnold's door.
"For a time I shall have much to do, but soon I hope for great
promotion and more leisure," he said.
"Tell me the good news," she urged.
"I expect to be the happiest man in the army, and the master of this
house and your husband."
"And you and I shall be as one," she answered. "God speed the day when
that may be true also of your people and my people."
?/p>
2
He kissed her and bade her good night and returned to his many tasks.
He had visited the forts and batteries. He had communicated with every
outpost. His plan was complete. About midnight, when he and Solomon
were lying down to rest, two horsemen came up the road at a gallop and
stopped at his door. They were aides of Washington. They reported
that the General was spending the night at the house of Henry Jasper,
near the ferry, and would reach camp about noon next day.
"Thank God for that news," said the young man. "Solomon, I think that
we can sleep better to-night."
"If you're awake two minutes from now you'll hear some snorin',"
Solomon answered as he drew his boots. "I ain't had a good bar'foot
sleep in a week. I don't like to have socks er luther on when I wade
out into that pond. To-night, I guess, we'll smell the water lilies."
Jack was awake for an hour thinking of the great happiness which had
fallen in the midst of his troubles and of Thornhill and his message.
He heard the two aides going to their quarters. Then a deep silence
fell upon the camp, broken only by the rumble of distant thunder in the
mountains and the feet of some one pacing up and down between his hut
and the house of the General. He put on his long coat and slippers and
went out-of-doors.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"Arnold," was the answer. "Taking a little walk before I turn in."
There was a weary, pathetic note of trouble in that voice, long
remembered by the young man, who immediately returned to his bed. He
knew not that those restless feet of Arnold were walking in the flames
of hell. Had some premonition of what had been going on down the river
come up to him? Could he hear the feet of that horse, now galloping
northward through the valleys and over the hills toward him with evil
tidings? No more for this man was the comfort of restful sleep or the
joys of home and friendship and affection. Now the touch of his wife's
hand, the sympathetic look in her eyes and all her babble about the
coming marriage were torture to him. He could not endure it. Worst of
all, he was in a way where there is no turning. He must go on. He had
begun to know that he was suspected. The conduct of the scout, Solomon
Binkus, had suggested that he knew what was passing. Arnold had seen
the aides of Washington as they came in. The chief could not be far
behind them. He dreaded to stand before him. Compared to the torture
now beginning for this man, the fate of Bill Scott on Rock Creek in the
wilderness, had been a mercy.
Soon after sunrise came a solitary horseman, wearied by long travel,
with a message from Colonel Jameson to Arnold. A man had been captured
near Tarrytown with important documents on his person. He had
confessed that he was Adjutant-General Andr?of Sir Henry Clinton's
army. The worst had come to pass. Now treason! disgrace! the gibbet!
Arnold was sitting at breakfast. He arose, put the message in his
pocket and went out of the room. _The Vulture_ lay down the river
awaiting orders. The traitor walked hurriedly to the boat-landing.
Solomon was there. It had been his custom when in camp to go down to
the landing every morning with his spy-glass and survey the river.
Only one boatman was at the dock.
"Colonel Binkus, will you help this man to take me down to the British
ship?" Arnold asked. "I have an engagement with its commander and am
half an hour late."
Solomon had had much curiosity about that ship. He wished to see the
man who had gone into the bush and then to Smith's with Arnold.
"Sart'n," Solomon answered.
They got into a small barge with the General in the cushioned rear
seat, his flag in hand.
"Make what speed you can," said the General.
The oarsmen bent to their task and the barge swept on by the forts. A
Yankee sloop overhauled and surveyed them. If its skipper had
entertained suspicions they were dissipated by the presence of Solomon
Binkus in the barge.
They came up to _The Vulture_ and made fast at its landing stage where
an officer waited to receive the General. The latter ascended to the
deck. In a moment a voice called from above:
"General Arnold's boatmen may come aboard."
A British war-ship was a thing of great interest to Solomon. Once
aboard he began to look about him at the shining guns and their gear
and the tackle and the men. He looked for Arnold, but he was not in
sight.
Among the crew then busy on the deck, Solomon saw the Tory desperado
"Slops," one time of the Ohio River country, with his black pipe in his
mouth. Slops paused in his hauling and reeving to shake a fist at
Solomon. They were heaving the anchor. The sails were running up.
The ship had begun to move. What was the meaning of this? Solomon
stepped to the ship's side. The stair had been hove up and made fast.
The barge was not to be seen.
"They will put you all ashore below," an officer said to him.
Solomon knew too much about Arnold to like the look of this. The
officer went forward. Solomon stepped to the opening in the deck rail,
not yet closed, through which he had come aboard. While he was looking
down at the water, some ten feet below, a group of sailors came to fill
in. His arm was roughly seized. Solomon stepped back. Before him
stood the man Slops. An insulting word from the latter, a quick blow
from Solomon, and Slops went through the gate out into the air and
downward. The scout knew it was no time to tarry.
"A night hawk couldn't dive no quicker ner what I done," were his words
to the men who picked him up. He was speaking of that half second of
the twenty-fourth of September, 1780. His brief account of it was
carefully put down by an officer: "I struck not twenty feet from Slops,
which I seen him jes' comin' up when I took water. This 'ere ol' sloop
that had overhauled us goin' down were nigh. Hadn't no more'n come up
than I felt Slops' knife rip into my leg. I never had no practise in
that 'ere knife work. 'Tain't fer decent folks, but my ol' Dan Skinner
is allus on my belt. He'd chose the weapons an' so I fetched 'er out.
Had to er die. We fit a minnit thar in the water. All the while he
had that damn black pipe in his mouth. I were hacked up a leetle, but
he got a big leak in _him_ an' all of a sudden he wasn't thar. He'd
gone. I struck out with ol' Dan Skinner 'twixt my teeth. Then I see
your line and grabbed it. Whar's the British ship now?"
"'Way below Stony P'int an' a fair wind in her sails,' the skipper
answered.
"Bound fer New York," said Solomon sorrowfully. "They'd 'a' took me
with 'em if I hadn't 'a' jumped. Put me over to Jasper's dock. I got
to see Washington quick."
"Washington has gone up the river."
"Then take me to quarters soon as ye kin. I'll give ye ten pounds,
good English gold. My God, boys! My ol' hide is leakin' bad."
He turned to the man who had been washing and binding his wounds.
"Sodder me up best ye kin. I got to last till I see the Father."
Solomon and other men in the old army had often used the word "Father"
in speaking of the Commander-in-Chief. It served, as no other could,
to express their affection for him.
The wind was unfavorable and the sloop found it difficult to reach the
landing near headquarters. After some delay Solomon jumped overboard
and swam ashore.
What follows he could not have told. Washington was standing with his
orderly in the little dooryard at headquarters as Solomon came
staggering up the slope at a run and threw his body, bleeding from a
dozen wounds, at the feet of his beloved Chief.
"Oh, my Father!" he cried in a broken voice and with tears streaming
down his cheeks. "Arnold has sold Ameriky an' all its folks an' gone
down the river."
Washington knelt beside him and felt his bloody garments.
"The Colonel is wounded," he said to his orderly. "Go for help."
The scout, weak from the loss of blood, tried to regain his feet but
failed. He lay back and whispered:
"I guess the sap has all oozed out o' me but I had enough."
Washington was one of those who put him on a stretcher and carried him
to the hospital.
When he was lying on his bed and his clothes were being removed, the
Commander-in-Chief paid him this well deserved compliment as he held
his hand:
"Colonel, when the war is won it will be only because I have had men
like you to help me."
Soon Jack came to his side and then Margaret. General Washington asked
the latter about Mrs. Arnold.
"My mother is doing what she can to comfort her," Margaret answered.
Solomon revived under stimulants and was able to tell them briefly of
the dire struggle he had had.
"It were Slops that saved me," he whispered.
He fell into a deep and troubled sleep and when he awoke in the middle
of the night he was not strong enough to lift his head. Then these
faithful friends of his began to know that this big, brawny,
redoubtable soldier was having his last fight. He seemed to be aware
of it himself for he whispered to Jack:
"Take keer o' Mirandy an' the Little Cricket."
Late the next day he called for his Great Father. Feebly and brokenly
he had managed to say:
"Jes' want--to--feel--his hand."
Margaret had sat beside him all day helping the nurse.
A dozen times Jack had left his work and run over for a look at
Solomon. On one of these hurried visits the young man had learned of
the wish of his friend. He went immediately to General Washington, who
had just returned from a tour of the forts. The latter saw the look of
sorrow and anxiety in the face of his officer.
"How is the Colonel?" he asked.
"I think that he is near his end," Jack answered. "He has expressed a
wish to feel your hand again."
"Let us go to him at once," said the other. "There has been no greater
man in the army."
Together they went to the bedside of the faithful scout. The General
took his hand. Margaret put her lips close to Solomon's ear and said:
"General Washington has come to see you."
Solomon opened his eyes and smiled. Then there was a beauty not of
this world in his homely face. And that moment, holding the hand he
had loved and served and trusted, the heroic soul of Solomon Binkus
went out upon "the lonesome trail."
Jack, who had been kneeling at his side, kissed his white cheek.
"Oh, General, I knew and loved this man!" said the young officer as he
arose.
"It will be well for our people to know what men like him have endured
for them," said Washington.
"I shall have to learn how to live without him," said Jack. "It will
be hard."
Margaret took his arm and they went out of the door and stood a moment
looking off at the glowing sky above the western hills.
"Now you have me," she whispered.
He bent and kissed her.
"No man could have a better friend and fighting mate than you," he
answered.
?/p>
3
"'We spend our years as a tale that is told,'" Jack wrote from
Philadelphia to his wife in Albany on the thirtieth of June, 1787:
"Dear Margaret, we thought that the story was ended when Washington
won. Five years have passed, as a watch in the night, and the most
impressive details are just now falling out. You recall our curiosity
about Henry Thornhill? When stopping at Kinderhook I learned that the
only man of that name who had lived there had been lying in his grave
these twenty years. He was one of the first dreamers about Liberty.
What think you of that? I, for one, can not believe that the man I saw
was an impostor. Was he an angel like those who visited the prophets?
Who shall say? Naturally, I think often of the look of him and of his
sudden disappearance in that Highland road. And, looking back at
Thornhill, this thought comes to me: Who can tell how many angels he
has met in the way of life all unaware of the high commission of his
visitor?
"On my westward trip I found that the Indians who once dwelt in The
Long House were scattered. Only a tattered remnant remains. Near old
Fort Johnson I saw a squaw sitting in her blanket. Her face was
wrinkled with age and hardship. Her eyes were nearly blind. She held
in her withered hands the ragged, moth eaten tail of a gray wolf. I
asked her why she kept the shabby thing.
"'Because of the hand that gave it,' she answered in English. 'I shall
take it with me to The Happy Hunting-Grounds. When he sees it he will
know me.'
"So quickly the beautiful Little White Birch had faded.
"At Mount Vernon, Washington was as dignified as ever but not so grave.
He almost joked when he spoke of the sculptors and portrait painters
who have been a great bother to him since the war ended.
"'Now no dray horse moves more readily to the thill than I to the
painter's chair," he said.
"When I arrived the family was going in to dinner and they waited until
I could make myself ready to join them. The jocular Light Horse Harry
Lee was there. His anecdotes delighted the great man. I had never
seen G. W. in better humor. A singularly pleasant smile lighted his
whole countenance. I can never forget the gentle note in his voice and
his dignified bearing. It was the same whether he were addressing his
guests or his family. The servants watched him closely. A look seemed
to be enough to indicate his wishes. The faithful Billy was always at
his side. I have never seen a sweeter atmosphere in any home. We sat
an hour at the table after the family had retired from it. In speaking
of his daily life he said:
"'I ride around my farms until it is time to dress for dinner, when I
rarely miss seeing strange faces, come, as they say, out of respect for
me. Perhaps the word curiosity would better describe the cause of it.
The usual time of sitting at table brings me to candle-light when I try
to answer my letters.'
"He had much to say on his favorite theme, viz.: the settling of the
immense interior and bringing its trade to the Atlantic cities.
"I was coughing with a severe cold. He urged me to take some remedies
which he had in the house, but I refused them.
"He went to his office while Lee and I sat down together. The latter
told me of a movement in the army led by Colonel Nichola to make
Washington king of America. He had seen Washington's answer to the
letter of the Colonel. It was as follows:
"'Be assured, sir, no occurrence in the course of the war has given me
sensations more painful than your information of there being such ideas
in the army as those you have imparted to me and I must view them with
abhorrence and reprehend them with severity. I am much at a loss to
conceive what part of my conduct could have given encouragement to an
address which to me seems big with the greatest mischiefs which could
befall my country.'
"Is it not a sublime and wonderful thing, dear Margaret, that all our
leaders, save one, have been men as incorruptible as Stephen and Peter
and Paul?
"When I went to bed my cough became more troublesome. After it had
gone on for half an hour or so my door was gently opened and I observed
the glow of a candle. On drawing my bed curtains I saw, to my utter
astonishment, Washington standing at my side with a bowl of hot tea in
his hand. It embarrassed me to be thus waited on by a man of his
greatness.
"We set out next morning for Philadelphia to attend the Convention,
Washington riding in his coach drawn by six horses, I riding the
blaze-faced mare of destiny, still as sweet and strong as ever. A slow
journey it was over the old road by Calvert's to Annapolis,
Chestertown, and so on to the north.
"I found Franklin sitting under a tree in his dooryard, surrounded by
his grandchildren. He looks very white and venerable now. His hair is
a crown of glory."
[Illustration: Ben Franklin, surrounded by his grandchildren.]
"'Well, Jack, it has been no small part of my life-work to get you
happily married,' he began in his playful way. 'A celibate is like the
odd half of a pair of scissors, fit only to scrape a trencher. How
many babies have you?'
"'Three,' I answered.
"'It is not half enough,' said he. 'A patriotic American should have
at least ten children. I must not forget to say to you what I say to
every young man. Always treat your wife with respect. It will procure
respect for you not only from her, but from all who observe it. Never
use a slighting word.'
"My beloved, how little I need this advice you know, but I think that
the old philosopher never made a wiser observation. I am convinced
that civilization itself depends largely on the respect that men feel
and show for women.
"I asked about his health.
"'I am weary and the night is falling and I shall soon lie down to
sleep, but I know that I shall awake refreshed in the morning,' he said.
"He told me how, distressed by his infirmity, he came out of France in
the Queen's litter, carried by her magnificent mules. Of England he
had only this to say:
"'She is doing wrong in discouraging emigration to America. Emigration
multiplies a nation. She should be represented in the growth of the
New World by men who have a voice in its government. By this fair
means she could repossess it instead of leaving it to foreigners, of
all nations, who may drown and stifle sympathy for the mother land. It
is now a fact that Irish emigrants and their children are in possession
of the government of Pennsylvania.'
"I must not fail to set down here in the hope that my sons may some
time read it, what he said to me of the treason of Arnold.
"'Here is the vindication of Poor Richard. Extravagance is not the way
to self-satisfaction. The man who does not keep his feet in the old,
honest way of thrift will some time sell himself, and then he will be
ready to sell his friends or his country. By and by nothing is so dear
to him as thirty pieces of silver.'
"I shall conclude my letter with a beautiful confession of faith by
this master mind of the century. It was made on the motion for daily
prayers in the Convention now drafting a constitution for the States.
I shall never forget the look of him as, standing on the lonely summit
of his eighty years, he said to us:
"'In the beginning of our contest with Britain when we were sensible of
danger, we had daily prayers in this room for Divine protection. Our
prayers, sirs, were heard and they were graciously answered. All of us
who were engaged in the struggle must have observed frequent instances
of a directing Providence in our affairs. And have we forgotten that
powerful friend? Or do we imagine that we no longer need His
assistance? I have lived, sirs, a long time and the longer I live the
more convincing proof I see of this truth that God governs in the
affairs of men. And if a sparrow can not fall to the ground without
His notice is it probable that an empire can rise without His aid? We
have been assured, sirs, that except the Lord build the house they
labor in vain who build it. I firmly believe this and I also believe
that without His concurring aid we shall succeed in this political
structure no better than the builders of Babel; we shall be divided and
confounded and we ourselves become a reproach and a byword down to
future ages. And, what is worse, mankind may hereafter despair of
establishing government by human wisdom and leave it to chance, war and
conquest.'
"Dear Margaret, you and I who have been a part of the great story know
full well that in these words of our noble friend is the conclusion of
the whole matter."