Chapter VI

Nearly a week had passed since the arrival of Ensign Wiley in the neighborhood of Fort Constitution, and he had as yet manifested no disposition to return. The vessel from which he landed still lay sleeping at anchor, just beyond the reach of the cannons of the fort; and himself, mingling freely in society, was every where received as a welcome addition to its limited numbers. Gansevoort, at this period, received a letter from his sister, which she had found means to send to Washington’s camp in New Jersey, and which had been forwarded from there. It was of recent date, and fully detailed the unparalleled persecution to which she had been subjected, and to a recurrence of which she was so soon to be exposed. Utterly astounded by this intelligence, and moved almost to madness by her earnest appeals for a relief beyond his ability to bestow, his grief yielded only to the most bitter and burning wrath against the infamous author of her sufferings. Long and anxiously he revolved the subject in his mind, without being able to decide upon any feasible plan of relief. The time appointed for the compulsory nuptials was so close at hand, that no action but the most speedy could be of the least avail. There was no possibility of his quitting his post, without special leave of the commander-in-chief, which could not be obtained within the requisite time; and to complete the combination of untoward events, his friend and counsellor, the Count De Zeng, was temporarily absent from the fort. His return was not expected until the ensuing morning, and Gansevoort was compelled patiently to await that event, with the very faint hope that some means of rescue might be devised. In the mean time, hoping to meet Wiley, and obtain from him some information that might be serviceable to his plans, he made an evening visit at the house of Captain Wilton, where, for the first time, he found himself alone with Arabella. Conversation, as was not unusual, took a political turn, and the affairs of King and Congress were discussed for some time in a semi-jocular vein.

“Colonel Gansevoort is now in the camp of the enemy,” Miss Wilton at length remarked; “if I could expect him to speak the truth under such circumstances, I should be disposed to trouble him with a very serious question.”

“Colonel Gansevoort will speak the truth, if he speaks at all,” replied the latter, smiling, “even in the enemy’s camp.”

“Tell me, then, Frank,” she rejoined, assuming a familiarity that their acquaintance in early life may possibly have justified, “tell me if you really desire to see the independence of these colonies established.”

For a moment Gansevoort was too much astonished at this question to reply. While he hesitated, a light of startling intensity broke upon his mind; but subduing every sign of emotion, he still remained silent.

“I know,” she continued, “that although Congress has declared independence, there are many of its supporters who in reality desire nothing more than an honorable peace with Great Britain, as her subjects. Suppose, then,” she added, “that you had it in your power to contribute to that end, and thus to promote the best interests of your country, and spare the effusion of human blood—would you not do it?”

Still Gansevoort did not reply.

“Suppose, also,” she continued, “that in so doing an honorable, praiseworthy action, you could secure to yourself affluence and distinction, would you not do it?”

Her companion at length spoke. “Why should we waste time in these idle hypotheses?” he said; “I know of no such opportunities.”

“But would you avail yourself of them if presented to you?”

“If Miss Wilton believes that I would not act in accordance with what was at once just and honorable, best for my country, and most advantageous to myself, she certainly gives me but little credit for discretion.”

“You have spoken at last, sir oracle, and like a man of sense and spirit. You seek the substantial good of your country. For this alone you have taken up arms; and for this, when it can be best accomplished by so doing, you are willing to lay them down. You are ready to take part in that patriotic and spontaneous movement which is every where making to promote a permanent peace. You are a prominent and influential man, whose example will lead others to return to their duty; and as such, his majesty is ready to testify his regard for you, in a particular and most gratifying manner.”

“His majesty has long had the reputation of being a gentleman of benevolence,” replied Gansevoort. “May I inquire in what manner he proposes to display it toward so insignificant a personage as myself?”

“Francis Gansevoort,” said Miss Wilton, “it is not unknown to the officers of the king, that your patriotism has brought upon you the curse of a loyal father, and that you are a disinherited and penniless man. You shall see that your sovereign is more easily propitiated than your sire. The royal exchequer will furnish an ample substitute for a forfeited patrimony. A free gift of ten thousand pounds will testify the approbation of our most gracious sovereign for his friend and subject, Sir Francis Gansevoort.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Gansevoort; “Is it possible?” now carried away by real surprise. “But,” he continued, after a pause, “is there nothing expected from me in return for such munificence, besides renewed allegiance?”

“Nothing,” replied Miss Wilton, “literally nothing. It is true, that merely as a proof of your sincerity, you will be expected to give up this useless air-castle of yours, which, now that the war is exclusively in another quarter, is in reality of no value either to King or Congress.”

“It is an air-castle, truly,” exclaimed Gansevoort, glancing momentarily from the window at the flag which floated among the dark clouds of night. “Have I not reason to suspect that your dazzling project is also a castle in the air and of less substantial texture? Kings do not usually employ such agents in their negotiations.”

“His majesty does not lack an agent far more worthy to represent him than myself. When you are prepared to enter upon the negotiation, he shall be forthcoming. Ensign Wiley⁠—”

“Enough!” cried Gansevoort; “I do not treat with ensigns. My own rank, and the importance of this transaction demand an envoy of far higher station, and one whose word is capable of binding the British government.”

“Be satisfied, then,” said Miss Wilton; “at this hour to-morrow, and at this place, you shall meet with one, to whose name, and rank, and authority, the utmost fastidiousness could not object.”

“Doubt not I will meet him,” was the reply. And thus they parted.

A few hours later in the evening now referred to, two individuals were seated in the cabin of the British sloop-of-war Dragon, engaged in earnest conversation. Both were in military undress. The one was young, slight, and good looking, with an air, however, of recklessness and audacity, that spoke the fitting agent of dark and hazardous deeds. The other was a middle-aged man, of more dignified and gentlemanly deportment. His demeanor was one that denoted station and influence, but his countenance bore that sinister expression, which nature often stamps upon the vile, and which no effort of assumed honesty can fully eradicate or conceal. Like the mark of Cain, it is indelible; but, unfortunately, unlike that sign, it is perceptible only to an eye practiced in the study of the human visage. An animated discussion had been followed by a prolonged silence, when the latter, after rising and rapidly pacing the floor, turned suddenly to his companion, and said,

“If you have made sure of success in this matter, Wiley, we shall have accomplished a work of the utmost magnitude, and your reward will be proportionate.”

“I assure you there is no room for doubt,” was the reply. “I have felt my way step by step. Our conversations have been frequent and prolonged. He believes that his cause is declining; that the leaders are rapidly giving in their adhesion to the crown; that all oppressive measures will be abandoned, and thus the chief object of the war attained. What wonder, then, that he should hasten to be among the earliest penitents, and thus secure to himself so brilliant a reward. In truth, I begin to regret that you bade so high.”

“It is too late to think of that,” said the other, musing. “And Miss Wilton is his affianced bride. Well, well—we have played for a heavy stake, and won. How will these tidings rejoice Sir William!” Thus muttering to himself, he continued to pace his limited apartment, until his companion reminded him of the lateness of the hour.

[Conclusion in our next.