Chapter VII: Act III

SCENE I.--_Robinson's house. A stormy night._ ARNOLD. PASQUIN.

_Arnold._ How looks the weather?

_Pasquin._ Stormy, sir; very stormy; it blows terrifically and there is heavy rain.

_Arnold._ Pasquin!

_Pasquin._ Sir.

_Arnold._ Tell the sentries upon duty to-night that I expect a gentleman of my acquaintance here about ten o'clock. When he comes to the outer gate, bid one of them conduct him to my apartment.

_Pasquin._ Your honour shall be obeyed. [_Exit_

_Arnold_ (_solus_).

Peace to this gloomy grove that sees me acting
What open daylight would disdain to own.
Ye wood, be witness of my dark designs,
And shade me o'er, ye lofty eminences;
Tremendous gloom, encompass me around
In clouds that wing from Greenland's foggy caves,
Plutonian darkness on your pinions bring,
Conceal my base intent from human view,
And be the daylight still a stranger to it.
Storm on, ye wind, the tempest that ye make
In the broad regions of the troubled ether
Is quiet to the tumult of my soul!
Departing honour,--take thy last adieu,
'Tis this night's deed that stamps me for a villain.
Who comes there? [_Enter Pasquin_

_Pasquin._ Sir, there is a traveller just alighted at Sergeant Jones's quarters, who desires to know whether he can have a little private conference with you, and asked me whether you were alone or no.

_Arnold._ A traveller? How is he dressed?

_Pasquin._ He has on a plain suit of blue clothes, a cocked beaver hat and draw boots. He rides a common bay horse, and by his general appearance one would suppose him to be a commissary, or perhaps a quarter-master.

_Arnold._ How came you to know all these particulars; the night being so dark and stormy?

_Pasquin._ I had a glimpse of him by means of a lanthorn we carried out when he got off his horse. Over all, I forgot to mention, he had a fear-naught riding coat.

_Arnold._ A plain blue suit, you say?

_Pasquin._ Yes.

_Arnold._ And draw boots?

_Pasquin._ Yes.

_Arnold._ And wore he sword?

_Pasquin._ No; he had no sword, that I saw.

_Arnold._ And what aspect is he? Is he a well-looking man?

_Pasquin._ As handsome a man, please your honour, as ever the sun shone upon. It did me good to look upon him.

_Arnold_ (_aside_). This must be him.

[_To Pasquin_] Bid the sergeant show him the way to me immediately, and put up his horse in my own stable. He is from Philadelphia, a friend and relative of mine.

[_Exit Pasquin_

_Arnold_ (_solus_). This is Major Andre, indeed. We have agreed in our correspondence that he shall pass here under the name of Captain Ashton, to prevent suspicion.

[_Sergeant introduces Major Andre_

_Arnold._ Captain Ashton, my friend, how are you? Please to draw near the fire and sit. How do our friends at Philadelphia? [_Exit sergeant_] The booby is now gone, and we may talk freely without suspicion.

_Maj. Andre._ I am happy at length to see General Arnold, with whom I have corresponded so long at a distance. I hope, my dear general, you are ready to perform your promise.

_Arnold._ Undoubtedly the fort shall be yours within three days, upon the conditions I mentioned to you in my last letter. I hope you have apprised Sir Henry of them.

_Maj. Andre._ Yes, sir. He is satisfied, and thinks your demand really moderate; but now let us to the point. We must fall upon some plan by which we must act without much danger of miscarriage. Would it not be best that our troops should seem to take the fort by surprise, and thus prevent the world from having any suspicion of treachery in the case?

_Arnold._ I have had the same thought, my dear sir. Besides, if we can make this pass, I shall become a prisoner of war to you in appearance, be exchanged after a little time, and so be in a capacity to serve you again; or, pretending the fort not tenable, I may make my escape during your attack, and all this without any suspicion on the part of the Americans.

_Maj. Andre._ God grant your scheme may be successful.

_Arnold._ Now hear what I have to propose further. When you are embarked with your army, suppose one or two thousand men or more sail up the river as far as you safely can, short of the fort, and endeavour to make the country believe you are on a plundering expedition. I shall have companies out who will give me notice of all your movements. Then land your men, march up to the fort, demand a surrender, which I will absolutely refuse. Upon which hang out your bloody flag and fire against the walls point blank, without mercy. In that part of the fortress where I shall be, you will see a small white flag flying. Do not fire to that quarter. The garrison shall discharge the artillery three times over your heads, after which I will surrender and open the gates to you. Then, by not putting one of the garrison to death, which would be your right, you having stormed it, you will have an excellent opportunity of giving the world a new instance of British humanity. Then you may pour your troops into the fort, take possession of it, and hoist the British flag. The prisoners may immediately be sent to the shipping and ordered to New York before the Continental forces will have a chance of hindering the embarkation. What say you?

_Maj. Andre._ Excellently well imagined. I hope it may succeed. The money shall be paid you on your arrival at York; but there is another service Sir Henry would fain hope you could indulge him in, and your reward shall be double.

_Arnold._ What may it be?

_Maj. Andre._ He is eager to be possessed of your Commander-in-Chief. Could you contrive no way to get him into our hands? He is the soul of this obstinate rebellion. Were he a prisoner to us, America would soon be ours again.

_Arnold_ (_pausing_). Why, true, it would greatly facilitate the recovery of the colonies. Let me see. I will endeavour to prevail upon him to spend a day or two at Robinson's home. Nay, I am sure he will be here next Monday, and the garrison. There are a number of disaffected people not far from hence, whom I can engage to secure his person and convey him on board the _Vulture_ ship of war.

_Maj. Andre._ If we become by your means possessed of these two jewels, General Washington and this important fort, we shall never think the obligation sufficiently acknowledged. You will become the greatest man in the world. Britain will adore you. She will kiss the very ground you tread upon, besides lavishing wealth upon you by millions.

_Arnold._ She is heartily welcome to such poor services as I can render her. What I do is from principle, from the consciousness of a rectitude of heart and love to my country.

_Maj. Andre._ Sir, you were born to be a great man. Now, if you will be pleased to deliver me the plan of the fort, signals of recognizance and other papers of consequence in this affair, I will be going. I do not think myself safe till such times as I get within the British lines again.

_Arnold._ The danger is trifling. With a passport from me, you may go anywhere in these colonies.

_Maj. Andre._ Sir, I thank you. It may be of service indeed.

_Arnold._ I will write it immediately. There, sir; and here is the packet. I will not detain you, because I know the business requires dispatch. You will, however, sup with me, and take a glass of wine before you go.

_Maj. Andre._ I shall hardly have time; however, I will wait half an hour.

_Arnold._ Walk with me into this other apartment; we soldiers do not stand upon ceremony. But how do you carry these papers so as to conceal them in case you meet with any over-curious persons?

_Maj. Andre._ I have an expedient. I can carry them in the foot of my boot. Do you see how snug they lie?

[_Putting them on_

_Arnold._ Aye, faith, that was well thought of; but do not put the passport in your boot.

_Maj. Andre._ No, no. That goes into my pocket.

SCENE II.--_An ancient stone building in the Dutch taste. Three officers_, VINCENT, AMBROSE, ASMITH. VINCENT _and_ ASMITH _entering_.

_Am._ Well are we met in these sequestered wilds;
Whence come ye, brothers, at so late an hour?

_Vin._ From scouring all the country up and down,
To seize, if fortune please, illicit traders,
Who are so bold and unscrupulous grown
That oft in open day, as well as night,
They bear large cargoes of provision down
To yonder ships that still infest our river.
How I detest these underhanded scoundrels,
Who, hungry as the grave for British gold,
Feed the vile foe that lurks within our harbours.

_Am._ Gods! Can they be so base,--but there are they
Who sell their country for a mess of pottage,--
A servile, scheming race whose god is gain,
Who for a little gold would stab their fathers
And plunder life from her who gave them life.
These are not true Americans. They are
A spurious race--scum, dregs, and bastards all.
They are not true Americans, I say.

_As._ They cannot be, they help toward our ruin.
But, gentlemen, I'll tell you what I think;
We have so many lurking foes within,
And such a potent enemy without,
That I almost despair, I must confess,
That ever we shall rend these thirteen States
From persevering Britain, and compel
Acknowledgment of independence here.

_Vin._ Say not so.
The rights of humanity, 'tis these we fight for,
And not to carry ruin round the globe.
Appearances are so much in our favour
That he who doubts that this event shall be,
Must be as blind as he whose useless orbs
Have never drank the radiated light.
Nay, he who doubts of this, who dares to doubt
(If nature be not ----[37] to miracles
And devils rule with delegated sway)
Deserves not nor is worthy to enjoy
The paradise we look for.

_Amb._ Be it so.
But let us leave the great event to fate,
Who soon or late will bring to light its purpose;
Our duty to our country must be done,
And in so doing we its freedom hasten.
But, friends, why stay we here? By yonder stars
That still revolving point toward the pole,
I find it must be midnight.

_Vin._ I do expect a score of peasants here,
A set of hardy, bold, and faithful fellows,
Whom I can trust in all emergencies.
In different parties I shall these despatch
Toward the hostile lines, for I suspect
That intercourse too often doth subsist
Between our disaffected and the foe.

_Amb._ And are these peasants armed?

_Vin._ Armed with a musquet and a bayonet;
A true and desperate soldier wants no more.

_As._ And thirty cartridges to every man,
With three days' victuals in their knapsacks stored.

_Amb._ It is enough. I hope they will not tarry.

SCENE III.--_A number of armed peasants in an outhouse._

_1st P._ Do you know what we are sent for, brother Harry?

_2nd P._ To go on some secret expedition, I suppose.

_1st P._ And which way shall we bend, think ye?

_2nd P._ God bless you. Why do you ask such a question? It is not for us to know where we are going. We shall know bye and bye, I warrant you, after we have marched two or three score of miles.

_1st P._ And where are our officers?

_2nd P._ They are in the adjoining house. They will be with us presently.

_3rd P._ And how shall we pass the time till they come?

_2nd P._ O, merrily enough. We can dance and sing.

_1st P._ Harry, you can sing. Give us a song.

_2nd P._ [_Sings_

Ours not to sleep in shady bowers,[38]
When frosts are chilling all the plain,
And nights are cold and long the hours
To check the ardor of the swain,
Who parting from his cheerful fire
All comforts doth forego,
And here and there
And everywhere
Pursues the prowling foe.

_2nd P._ How like you that?

_3rd P._ O, very well. I love to hear anything that touches upon the hardships of a soldier's life.

_4th P._ Give us the rest; give us the rest. I love that song, Harry.

_2nd P._

But we must sleep in frost and snows,
No season shuts up our campaign;
Hard as the oaks, we dare oppose
The autumn's or the winter's reign.
Alike to us the winds that blow
In summer's season gay,
Or those that rave
On Hudson's wave
And drift his ice away.

For Liberty, celestial maid,
With joy all hardships we endure.
In her blest smiles we are repaid,
In her protection are secure.
Then rise superior to the foe,
Ye freeborn souls of fire;
Respect these arms,
'Tis freedom warms,
To noble deeds aspire.

Winter and death may change the scene,
The cold may freeze, the ball may kill,
And dire misfortunes intervene;
But freedom shall be potent still
To drive these Britons from our shore,
Who, cruel and unkind,
With slavish chain
Attempt in vain
Our freeborn limbs to bind.

_Pasq._ O, excellent--"Our freeborn limbs to bind"--by my soul, they never shall bind mine. Harry, give us another song on our affairs and then we'll be ready.

_All._ Ay, ay; another, another.

_2nd P._ I have not many by heart. I do recollect one at present, but it was made at the beginning of the war.

_All._ No matter, no matter; let's hear it.

_2nd P._ [_Sings_

The cohorts of Britain are now all complete,
She has brushed up her soldiers and manned out her fleet;
The lion has roared whose trade is to kill,
And we are the victims whose blood he must spill.

But ere I am slaughtered and wrapped in a shroud
I must tell you the motive that makes him so proud.
The monkeys and puppies that bow to his rule
Have told him a lie and deceived the old fool.

They say we are cowards, not dressed in red coats,
That he without danger may cut all our throats;
If we see but a Briton, confounded with fear,
We'll throw down our muskets and run like a deer.

That one thousand men with a captain would dare
To march from New Hampshire to Georgia, they swear.
But here lies the trick of these wonderful men,
They tell us they'll do it, but do not say when.

Such a motive to fight would you ever conceive,
Yet such is the motive that makes him so brave.
On such a presumption, in hopes of applause,
He whets up his grinders and sharpens his claws.

But hark, Mr. Lion, and be not so stout,
In fancy alone you have put us to rout.
To show you how little your threat'nings avail,
Here's a kick at your breech and a clip at your tail.[39]

* * * * * * *

But everything seems poisoned where I tread,
And I am tortured to perfection.

[_Exit. Enter an officer of the guard_

SCENE IV.--_Another apartment in said house. Enter_ AIDE _to_ GEN. ARNOLD.

_Aide._ General Arnold here?

_Jeff._ Two hours have hardly yet elapsed since he
Across the river to the garrison
On some important business went in haste,
So as I told to his attendant here.
For since the general parted I arrived.
Is he, then, at the garrison? by heaven,
We'll have him in a trice.

_Aide._ You'll have him in a trice. Pray, what means that?

_Jeff._ I see your ignorance, my honest friend.
Why such a damned, unnatural plot has happened
That when I mention it, if you have feeling,
At the first word your blood must chill with horror
And admiration shake your very soul.
This traitor Arnold, this vile, abandoned traitor,
This monster of ingratitude unequalled,
Has been conspiring with an English spy
To render tip the fort to General Clinton.

_Aide._ What fort? the fort at West Point, mean you?

_Jeff._ The fort at West Point, on my sacred honour,
The garrison, dependencies, and stores,
And, what is more, the person of our leader.
Five thousand troops at York are now embarked,
And even wait this night to take possession.

_Aide._ Is this reality; sure you are jesting.
And yet you serious seem to be of countenance.
Lips that quiver, eyes that glow with passion,
Tempt me to think your story may be true.
And yet I doubt it. Came you here to seize him?

_Jeff._ Nay, doubt it not. I have the papers with me
That at a glance betray this horrid treason.

_Aide._ For what could he do this?
Was it Resentment, Avarice, Ambition
That prompted him to act the traitor's part?
And yet I'm sure it never could be avarice.
His country lavishes her wealth upon him;
He has the income of a little king,
And perquisites that by a hundred ways
Not only the base wants of life supply,
But deck him out in elegance and grandeur.
Perhaps, indeed, he has ambitious views:
He aims to make his court to Britain's king,
And rise upon the ruins of his country.
Perhaps it is resentment and disgust,
For many hate him, and have often said
He fattens on the plunder of the public.

_Jeff._ 'Tis avarice, sir, that base, unmanly motive.
The glare of British gold has captivated
This hero, as we thought him. What a curse,
That human souls can of such stuff be moulded,
That they, foregoing fame and character,
E'en for the sake of what is despicable,
Be foe to virtue and to virtue's friend.
But such are to be found, and every age has seen 'em,
Who, for the sake of mere external show,
Some qualities that seemed to them attractive----[40]

[33] This fragment of a drama, as far as I can find, was never published. Freneau, judging from indications, wrote it shortly after his "Prison Ship," in the autumn of 1780, only a few weeks after the events took place which it records. It exists, as far as I know, only in Freneau's fragmentary and much-revised autograph manuscript now in the possession of Miss Adele M. Sweeney of Jersey City. The arrest of Andre took place September 23, 1780.

[34] Here occurs an illegible word in Freneau's manuscript.

[35] This poem was first published in the edition of 1786 under the title, "The English Quixote of 1778; or, Modern Idolatry." In the 1809 edition Freneau added the following: