Need I describe, young folks, the delights of the meeting at home, and the mother’s happiness with all her brood once more under her fond wings? It was wrote in her face, and acknowledged on her knees. Our house was large enough for all, but Aunt Hetty would not stay in it. She said, fairly, that to resign her motherhood over the elder children, who had been hers for nearly three years, cost her too great a pang; and she could not bear for yet a while to be with them, and to submit to take only the second place. So she and her father went away to a house at Bury St. Edmunds, not far from us, where they lived, and where she spoiled her eldest nephew and niece in private. It was the year after we came home that Mr. B, the Jamaica planter, died, who left her the half of his fortune; and then I heard, for the first time, how the worthy gentleman had been greatly enamoured of her in Jamaica, and, though she had refused him, had thus shown his constancy to her. Heaven knows how much property of Aunt Hetty’s Monsieur Miles hath already devoured! the price of his commission and outfit; his gorgeous uniforms; his play-debts and little transactions in the Minories; — do you think, sirrah, I do not know what human nature is; what is the cost of Pall Mall taverns, petits soupers, play even in moderation — at the Cocoa-Tree; and that a gentleman cannot purchase all these enjoyments with the five hundred a year which I allow him? Aunt Hetty declares she has made up her mind to be an old maid. “I made a vow never to marry until I could find a man as good as my dear father,” she said; “and I never did, Sir George. No, my dearest Theo, not half as good; and Sir George may put that in his pipe and smoke it.”
And yet when the good General died (calm, and full of years, and glad to depart), I think it was my wife who shed the most tears. “I weep because I think I did not love him enough,” said the tender creature: whereas Hetty scarce departed from her calm, at least outwardly and before any of us; talks of him constantly still, as though he were alive; recalls his merry sayings, his gentle, kind ways with his children (when she brightens up and looks herself quite a girl again), and sits cheerfully looking up to the slab in church which records his name and some of his virtues, and for once tells no lies.
I had fancied, sometimes, that my brother Hal, for whom Hetty had a juvenile passion, always retained a hold of her heart; and when he came to see us, ten years ago, I told him of this childish romance of Het’s, with the hope, I own, that he would ask her to replace Mrs. Fanny, who had been gathered to her fathers, and regarding whom my wife (with her usual propensity to consider herself a miserable sinner) always reproached herself, because, forsooth, she did not regret Fanny enough. Hal, when he came to us, was plunged in grief about her loss; and vowed that the world did not contain such another woman. Our dear old General, who was still in life then, took him in and housed him, as he had done in the happy early days. The women played him the very same tunes which he had heard when a boy at Oakhurst. Everybody’s heart was very soft with old recollections, and Harry never tired of pouring out his griefs and his recitals of his wife’s virtues to Het, and anon of talking fondly about his dear Aunt Lambert, whom he loved with all his heart, and whose praises, you may be sure, were welcome to the faithful old husband, out of whose thoughts his wife’s memory was never, I believe, absent for any three waking minutes of the day.
General Hal went to Paris as an American General Officer in his blue and yellow (which Mr. Fox and other gentlemen had brought into fashion here likewise), and was made much of at Versailles, although he was presented by Monsieur le Marquis de Lafayette to the Most Christian King and Queen, who did not love Monsieur le Marquis. And I believe a Marquise took a fancy to the Virginian General, and would have married him out of hand, had he not resisted, and fled back to England and Warrington and Bury again, especially to the latter place, where the folks would listen to him as he talked about his late wife, with an endless patience and sympathy. As for us, who had known the poor paragon, we were civil, but not quite so enthusiastic regarding her, and rather puzzled sometimes to answer our children’s questions about Uncle Hal’s angel wife.
The two Generals and myself, and Captain Miles, and Parson Blake (who was knocked over at Monmouth, the year after I left America, and came home to change his coat, and take my living), used to fight the battles of the Revolution over our bottle; and the parson used to cry, “By Jupiter, General” (he compounded for Jupiter, when he laid down his military habit), “you are the Tory, and Sir George is the Whig! He is always finding fault with our leaders, and you are for ever standing up for them; and when I prayed for the King last Sunday, I heard you following me quite loud.”
“And so I do, Blake, with all my heart; I can’t forget I wore his coat,” says Hal.
“Ah, if Wolfe had been alive for twenty years more!” says Lambert.
“Ah, sir,” cries Hal, “you should hear the General talk about him!”
“What General?” says I (to vex him).
“My General,” says Hal, standing up, and filling a bumper. “His Excellency General George Washington!”
“With all my heart,” cry I, but the parson looks as if he did not like the toast or the claret.
Hal never tired in speaking of his General; and it was on some such evening of friendly converse, that he told us how he had actually been in disgrace with this General whom he loved so fondly. Their difference seems to have been about Monsieur le Marquis de Lafayette before mentioned, who played such a fine part in history of late, and who hath so suddenly disappeared out of it. His previous rank in our own service, and his acknowledged gallantry during the war, ought to have secured Colonel Warrington’s promotion in the Continental army, where a whipper-snapper like M. de Lafayette had but to arrive and straightway to be complimented by Congress with the rank of Major-General. Hal, with the freedom of an old soldier, had expressed himself somewhat contemptuously regarding some of the appointments made by Congress, with whom all sorts of miserable intrigues and cabals were set to work by unscrupulous officers who were greedy of promotion. Mr. Warrington, imitating perhaps in this the example of his now illustrious friend of Mount Vernon, affected to make the war en gentilhomme took his pay, to be sure, but spent it upon comforts and clothing for his men, and as for rank, declared it was a matter of no earthly concern to him, and that he would as soon serve as colonel as in any higher grade. No doubt he added contemptuous remarks regarding certain General Officers of Congress army, their origin, and the causes of their advancement: notably he was very angry about the sudden promotion of the young French lad just named — the Marquis, as they loved to call him — in the Republican army, and who, by the way, was a prodigious favourite of the Chief himself. There were not three officers in the whole Continental force (after poor madcap Lee was taken prisoner and disgraced) who could speak the Marquis’s language, so that Hal could judge the young Major-General more closely and familiarly than other gentlemen, including the Commander-inChief himself. Mr. Washington good-naturedly rated friend Hal for being jealous of the beardless commander of Auvergne; was himself not a little pleased by the filial regard and profound veneration which the enthusiastic young nobleman always showed for him; and had, moreover, the very best politic reasons for treating the Marquis with friendship and favour.
Meanwhile, as it afterwards turned out, the Commander-inChief was most urgently pressing Colonel Warrington’s promotion upon Congress; and, as if his difficulties before the enemy were not enough, he being at this hard time of winter entrenched at Valley Forge, commanding five or six thousand men at the most, almost without fire, blankets, food, or ammunition, in the face of Sir William Howe’s army, which was perfectly appointed, and three times as numerous as his own; as if, I say, this difficulty was not enough to try him, he had further to encounter the cowardly distrust of Congress, and insubordination and conspiracy amongst the officers in his own camp. During the awful winter of ‘77, when one blow struck by the sluggard at the head of the British forces might have ended the war, and all was doubt, confusion, despair in the opposite camp (save in one indomitable breast alone), my brother had an interview with the Chief, which he has subsequently described to me, and of which Hal could never speak without giving way to the deepest emotion. Mr. Washington had won no such triumph as that which the dare-devil courage of Arnold and the elegant imbecility of Burgoyne had procured for Gates and the northern army. Save in one or two minor encounters, which proved how daring his bravery was, and how unceasing his watchfulness, General Washington had met with defeat after defeat from an enemy in all points his superior. The Congress mistrusted him. Many an officer in his own camp hated him. Those who had been disappointed in ambition, those who had been detected in peculation, those whose selfishness or incapacity his honest eyes had spied out — were all more, or less in league against him. Gates was the chief towards whom the malcontents turned. Mr. Gates was the only genius fit to conduct the war; and with a vaingloriousness, which he afterwards generously owned, he did not refuse the homage which was paid him.
To show how dreadful were the troubles and anxieties with which General Washington had to contend, I may mention what at this time was called the “Conway Cabal.” A certain Irishman — a Chevalier of St. Louis, and an officer in the French service — arrived in America early in the year ‘77 in quest of military employment. He was speedily appointed to the rank of brigadier, and could not be contented, forsooth, without an immediate promotion to be major-general.
Mr. C. had friends at Congress, who, as the General-inChief was informed, had promised him his speedy promotion. General Washington remonstrated, representing the injustice of promoting to the highest rank the youngest brigadier in the service; and whilst the matter was pending, was put in possession of a letter from Conway to General Gates, whom he complimented, saying, that “Heaven had been determined to save America, or a weak general and bad councillors would have ruined it.” The General enclosed the note to Mr. Conway, without a word of comment; and Conway offered his resignation, which was refused by Congress, who appointed him Inspector-General of the army, with the rank of Major-General.
“And it was at this time,” says Harry (with many passionate exclamations indicating his rage with himself and his admiration of his leader), “when, by heavens, the glorious Chief was oppressed by troubles enough to drive ten thousand men mad — that I must interfere with my jealousies about the Frenchman! I had not said much, only some nonsense to Greene and Cadwalader about getting some frogs against the Frenchman came to dine with us, and having a bagful of Marquises over from Paris, as we were not able to command ourselves; — but I should have known the Chief’s troubles, and that he had a better head than mine, and might have had the grace to hold my tongue.
“For a while the General said nothing, but I could remark, by the coldness of his demeanour, that something had occurred to create a schism between him and me. Mrs. Washington, who had come to camp, also saw that something was wrong. Women have artful ways of soothing men and finding their secrets out. I am not sure that I should have ever tried to learn the cause of the General’s displeasure, for I am as proud as he is, and besides” (says Hal), “when the Chief is angry, it was not pleasant coming near him, I can promise you.” My brother was indeed subjugated by his old friend, and obeyed him and bowed before him as a boy before a schoolmaster.
“At last,” Hal resumed, “Mrs. Washington found out the mystery. ‘Speak to me after dinner, Colonel Hal,’ says she. ‘Come out to the parade-ground, before the dining-house, and I will tell you all.’ I left a half-score of general officers and brigadiers drinking round the General’s table, and found Mrs. Washington waiting for me. She then told me it was the speech I had made about the box of Marquises, with which the General was offended. ‘I should not have heeded it in another,’ he had said, ‘but I never thought Harry Warrington would have joined against me.’
“I had to wait on him for the word that night, and found him alone at his table. ‘Can your Excellency give me five minutes’ time?’ I said, with my heart in my mouth. ‘Yes, surely, sir,’ says he, pointing to the other chair. ‘Will you please to be seated?’
“‘It used not always to be Sir and Colonel Warrington, between me and your Excellency,’ I said.
“He said, calmly, ‘The times are altered.’
“‘Et nos mutamur in illis,’ says I. ‘Times and people are both changed.’
“‘You had some business with me?’ he asked.
“‘Am I speaking to the Commander-inChief or to my old friend?’ I asked.
“He looked at me gravely. ‘Well — to both, sir,’ he said. ‘Pray sit, Harry.’
“‘If to General Washington, I tell his Excellency that I, and many officers of this army, are not well pleased to see a boy of twenty made a major-general over us, because he is a Marquis, and because he can’t speak the English language. If I speak to my old friend, I have to say that he has shown me very little of trust or friendship for the last few weeks; and that I have no desire to sit at your table, and have impertinent remarks made by others there, of the way in which his Excellency turns his back on me.’
“‘Which charge shall I take first, Harry?’ he asked, turning his chair away from the table, and crossing his legs as if ready for a talk. ‘You are jealous, as I gather, about the Marquis?’
“‘Jealous, sir!’ says I. ‘An aide-de-camp of Mr. Wolfe is not jealous of a Jack-a-dandy who, five years ago, was being whipped at school!’
“‘You yourself declined higher rank than that which you hold,’ says the Chief, turning a little red.
“‘But I never bargained to have a macaroni Marquis to command me!’ I cried. ‘I will not, for one, carry the young gentleman’s orders; and since Congress and your Excellency chooses to take your generals out of the nursery, I shall humbly ask leave to resign, and retire to my plantation.’
“‘Do, Harry; that is true friendship!’ says the Chief, with a gentleness that surprised me. ‘Now that your old friend is in a difficulty, ’tis surely the best time to leave him.’
“‘Sir!’ says I.
“‘Do as so many of the rest are doing, Mr. Warrington. Et tu, Brute, as the play says. Well, well, Harry! I did not think it of you; but, at least, you are in the fashion.’
“‘You asked which charge you should take first?’ I said.
“‘Ch, the promotion of the Marquis? I recommended the appointment to Congress, no doubt; and you and other gentlemen disapprove it.’
“‘I have spoken for myself, sir,’ says I.
“‘If you take me in that tone, Colonel Warrington, I have nothing to answer!’ says the Chief, rising up very fiercely; ‘and presume that I can recommend officers for promotion without asking your previous sanction.’
“‘Being on that tone, sir,’ says I, ‘let me respectfully offer my resignation to your Excellency, founding my desire to resign upon the fact, that Congress, at your Excellency’s recommendation, offers its highest commands to boys of twenty, who are scarcely even acquainted with our language.’ And I rise up and make his Excellency a bow.
“‘Great heavens, Harry!’ he cries —(about this Marquis’s appointment he was beaten, that was the fact, and he could not reply to me), ‘can’t you believe that in this critical time of our affairs, there are reasons why special favours should be shown to the first Frenchman of distinction who comes amongst us?’
“‘No doubt, sir. If your Excellency acknowledges that Monsieur de Lafayette’s merits have nothing to do with the question.’
“‘I acknowledge or deny nothing, sir!’ says the General, with a stamp of his foot, and looking as though he could be terribly angry if he would. ‘Am I here to be catechised by you? Stay. Hark, Harry! I speak to you as a man of the world — nay, as an old friend. This appointment humiliates you and others, you say? Be it so! Must we not bear humiliation, along with the other burthens and griefs, for the sake of our country? It is no more just perhaps that the Marquis should be set over you gentlemen, than that your Prince Ferdinand or your Prince of Wales at home should have a command over veterans. But if in appointing this young nobleman we please a whole nation, and bring ourselves twenty millions of allies, will you and other gentlemen sulk because we do him honour? ’Tis easy to sneer at him (though, believe me, the Marquis has many more merits than you allow him); to my mind it were more generous, as well as more polite, of Harry Warrington to welcome this stranger for the sake of the prodigious benefit our country may draw from him — not to laugh at his peculiarities, but to aid him and help his ignorance by your experience as an old soldier: that is what I would do — that is the part I expected of thee — for it is the generous and manly one, Harry: but you choose to join my enemies, and when I am in trouble you say you will leave me. That is why I have been hurt: that is why I have been cold. I thought I might count on your friendship — and — and you can tell whether I was right or no. I relied on you as on a brother, and you come and tell me you will resign. Be it so! Being embarked in this contest, by God’s will I will see it to an end. You are not the first, Mr. Warrington, has left me on the way.’
“He spoke with so much tenderness, and as he spoke his face wore such a look of unhappiness, that an extreme remorse and pity seized me, and I called out I know not what incoherent expressions regarding old times, and vowed that if he would say the word, I never would leave him. You never loved him, George,” says my brother, turning to me, “but I did beyond all mortal men; and, though I am not clever like you, I think my instinct was in the right. He has a greatness not approached by other men”
“I don’t say no, brother,” said I, “now.”
“Greatness, pooh!” says the parson, growling over his wine.
“We walked into Mrs. Washington’s tea-room arm-inarm,” Hal resumed; “she looked up quite kind, and saw we were friends. ‘Is it all over, Colonel Harry?’ she whispered. ‘I know he has applied ever so often about your promotion ——’
“‘I never will take it,’ says I. And that is how I came to do penance,” says Harry, telling me the story, “with Lafayette the next winter.” (Hal could imitate the Frenchman very well.) “‘I will go weez heem,’ says I. ‘I know the way to Quebec, and when we are not in action with Sir Guy, I can hear his Excellency the Major-General say his lesson.’ There was no fight, you know we could get no army to act in Canada, and returned to headquarters; and what do you think disturbed the Frenchman most? The idea that people would laugh at him, because his command had come to nothing. And so they did laugh at him, and almost to his face too, and who could help it? If our Chief had any weak point it was this Marquis.
“After our little difference we became as great friends as before — if a man may be said to be friends with a Sovereign Prince, for as such I somehow could not help regarding the General: and one night, when we had sate the company out, we talked of old times, and the jolly days of sport we had together both before and after Braddock’s; and that pretty duel you were near having when we were boys. He laughed about it, and said he never saw a man look more wicked and more bent on killing than you did: ‘And to do Sir George justice, I think he has hated me ever since,’ says the Chief. ‘Ah!’ he added, ‘an open enemy I can face readily enough. ’Tis the secret foe who causes the doubt and anguish! We have sat with more than one at my table today, to whom I am obliged to show a face of civility, whose hands I must take when they are offered, though I know they are stabbing my reputation, and are eager to pull me down from my place. You spoke but lately of being humiliated because a junior was set over you in command. What humiliation is yours compared to mine, who have to play the farce of welcome to these traitors; who have to bear the neglect of Congress, and see men who have insulted me promoted in my own army? If I consulted my own feelings as a man, would I continue in this command? You know whether my temper is naturally warm or not, and whether as a private gentleman I should be likely to suffer such slights and outrages as are put upon me daily; but in the advancement of the sacred cause in which we are engaged, we have to endure not only hardship and danger, but calumny and wrong, and may God give us strength to do our duty!’ And then the General showed me the papers regarding the affair of that fellow Conway, whom Congress promoted in spite of the intrigue, and down whose black throat John Cadwalader sent the best ball he ever fired in his life.
“And it was here,” said Hal, concluding his story, “as I looked at the Chief talking at night in the silence of the camp, and remembered how lonely he was, what an awful responsibility he carried, how spies and traitors were eating out of his dish, and an enemy lay in front of him who might at any time overpower him, that I thought, ‘Sure, this is the greatest man now in the world; and what a wretch I am to think of my jealousies and annoyances, whilst he is walking serenely under his immense cares!’”
“We talked but now of Wolfe,” said I. “Here, indeed, is a greater than Wolfe. To endure is greater than to dare; to tire out hostile fortune; to be daunted by no difficulty; to keep heart when all have lost it; to go through intrigue spotless; and to forgo even ambition when the end is gained — who can say this is not greatness, or show the other Englishman who has achieved so much?”
“I wonder, Sir George, you did not take Mr. Washington’s side, and wear the blue and buff yourself,” grumbles Parson Blake.
“You and I thought scarlet most becoming to our complexion, Joe Blake!” says Sir George. “And my wife thinks there would not have been room for two such great men on one side.”
“Well, at any rate, you were better than that odious, swearing, crazy General Lee, who was second in command!” cries Lady Warrington. “And I am certain Mr. Washington never could write poetry and tragedies as you can! What did the General say about George’s tragedies, Harry?”
Harry burst int............