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ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 
 
 HISTORICAL DRAMA. 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE H. CALVERT, 
 
 A NEW EDITIOK. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 LEE AND SHEPARD. 
 
 1876. 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by 
 
 George H. Calvert, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Rhode Island 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAM bridge: 
 STEKEOrrPED AND PRINTED BY H. 0. HOUGHTON. 
 
ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 
 

 r- 
 
7r<5 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 AMERICAN. 
 
 Geokge Washington, Commander-in-Chief. 
 
 Major-General Arnold. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold, his Wife. 
 
 Colonel Hamilton, Aide-de-Camp to General Washington. 
 
 Major McHenry, Aide-de-Camp to Lafayette. 
 
 M jor Varick, Aide-de-Camji to Arnold. 
 
 Joshua Smith, friend of Arnold. 
 
 Paulding, ) 
 
 Williams, / Captors of Andre. 
 
 Van Wart, ) 
 
 Serc/eani Briggs. 
 
 Fleming. 
 
 Van BERG. 
 
 Old Man. 
 
 His Grandson. 
 
 Farmers, Citizens, Attendants, 
 
 Major- General Greene, President, \ 
 
 Major- General, Marquis Lafayette, f Members of the Court of 
 
 Major- General, Baron Steuben, 1 Inquiry. 
 
 General Knox, and ten others^ ) 
 
 BRITISH. 
 
 Sir Henry Clinton, Commander-in- Chiej'. 
 
 Colonel Beverly Robinson, an American Tory. 
 
 Major Andre. 
 
 Captain Sutherland, Captain of tlie sloop-of-war " Vulture.'''' 
 
 Old British Officer. 
 
 Scene: Up the Hudson River, except the 2d Scene of Act I., which 
 
 is in Neio York. 
 Time: From September 18th to 30th, 1780, 
 
I 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 An historical drama being the incarnation — 
 through the most compact and brilliant literary 
 form — of the spirit of a national epoch, the 
 dramatic author, in adopting historic personages 
 and events, is bound to subordinate himself with 
 conscientious faithfulness to the actuality he at- 
 tempts to reproduce. His task is, by help of 
 imaginative power, to give to important conjunc- 
 tures, and to the individuals that rule them, a 
 more vivid embodiment than can be given on 
 the literal page of history, — not to transform, 
 but to elevate and animate an enacted reality, 
 and, by injecting it with poetic rays, to make it 
 throw out from itself a light whereby its features 
 shall be more clearly visible. 
 
 Historic subjects have necessarily an epic bias, 
 
yiii PRE FA CE. 
 
 events sweeping men along in their current, in- 
 stead of the current being much determined by 
 the personahties of men. Hence Shakspeare's 
 most dramatic tragedies, 3Iacheth and Xear and 
 Hamlet, are drawn from the prehistoric period, 
 where the poetic as well as the dramatic genius 
 has freer scope ; while those from English and 
 Ancient history are enjoyed for their clean char-' 
 acterization and luminous historic picture-painting, 
 and for — what is common to all his work — 
 great thovights buoyed on a sea of beauty, more 
 than for the prolific interplay of feelings and the 
 deep entanglements of passion — inextricable but 
 by death — and the breadth of seemingly free 
 movement, which make the tragedies wrought by 
 Shakspeare out of legend a glowing epitome of 
 the fallible and pathetic in human nature, a 
 poetic abstract of the tragic liabilities of man. 
 The Epic may be likened to a broad, swollen, 
 majestic, irresistible river : the Dramatic to the 
 pent-up waters of a rock-bound lake lashed by a 
 tempest. 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 But the Dramatic, gathering up the varied 
 and separate impulses of humanity into con- 
 densed organic wholes, combines into itself both 
 the other classes of poetic utterance, perfusing 
 its tissue with lyric as well as with epic juice. 
 As Shakspeare's historic plays are largely tinted 
 with epic color, others so sparkle with fantastic 
 wilfulness that they may almost be styled lyrical 
 dramas ; foremost among which are Midsummer 
 NigMs Dream and the Tempest., wherein, through 
 scenes and dialogue still thoroughly dramatic, 
 Shakspeare has more completely than elsewhere 
 given vent to his poetic and, I may venture to 
 say, his personal individuality, saturating them 
 with the inmost fragrance of his beautiful nature, 
 and making them buoyant with the fullest play 
 of a divine cheerfulness. 
 
 To get a view of the level little enclosure of 
 the three acts that are to follow, it is not at 
 all necessary to ascend to these Shakspearian 
 heights, up to which one is ever tempted by the 
 fruit that grows on them, — a golden crop, inex- 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 haustible in its beauty and healthful succulence. 
 We come down from them to say, that the 
 momentous consequences involved in success or 
 failure, the exciting and special nature of the 
 incidents and accompaniments, the individualities 
 of the two chief agents, with the figure and 
 character of Washington looming in the back- 
 ground almost like a controlling destiny, give to 
 the treason of Arnold rare capabilities as an 
 aesthetic subject ; and if the necessary locking 
 of the plot within a few breasts, and the separa- 
 tion of the principal agents except for one inter- 
 view, prevent there being much of that action 
 and reaction between the personages which is 
 needed for the deepest dramatic involution, this 
 is largely compensated for by the contrast be- 
 tween the natures of Arnold and Andrd, and by 
 the direct effect which their personal qualities and 
 temperaments had on the original conception of 
 the treason and on its issue. 
 
 Althouixh, from the confined circle in which 
 such a treason necessarily moved, it be not as a 
 
PREFACE. xi 
 
 subject for dramatic treatment the richest and 
 broadest, it is nevertheless well fitted for such 
 treatment, inasmuch as not only its inception and 
 progress, but also its defeat, were so directly the 
 result of the especial character of the several 
 persons engaged. The epic flow pauses for a 
 moment while human passions enact this episode. 
 In the rising stream of our history an eddy was 
 made to which a high military trust enabled a 
 Major-General to give so wide a sweep that the 
 success of his plot would have caused the current 
 disastrously to overflow, if not to change entirely 
 its channel. 
 
 The aim of the dramatist being to reproduce 
 in poetic form a chapter or section of National 
 Annals, and fidelity therefor to the spirit of the 
 period selected being a primary condition to the 
 attainment of his aim, it follows that truth of 
 characterization becomes a demand which he 
 must satisfy, or fail in his undertaking ; for the 
 events, owing their import, and it may be their 
 very existence, to the individualities of the chief 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 historic agents, the more faithfully these are re- 
 produced the more truly will the historic spirit 
 be preserved, it being the peculiar quality of 
 epochs fitted for dramatic treatment, that their 
 spirit is a distillation, so to speak, out of that of 
 the influential agents, in a measure the creators, 
 of the epoch. By truth of characterization is 
 meant historic truth, which is not only no bar 
 to poetic truth, but makes for it a solid elastic 
 basis, history and poetry enlivening and elevating 
 one the other. Poetry being the finest truth, 
 the essence indeed of truth, nourishes itself ro- 
 bustly and palatably on the true, pines if fed on 
 the false, and has within itself such all-sufficient 
 resources, that whatever is required for its own 
 corporeal manifestation it can freshly generate, if 
 need be, by imaginative energy. Wherefore, to 
 falsify history in order to compass dramatic ends, 
 were hi the author self-conviction of incompe- 
 tency ; and whenever such falsification has been 
 resorted to, it will be found that there is weak- 
 ness in the spirit, as well as in the body, of the 
 product. 
 
PREFACE. xiii 
 
 But to compass his ends, the dramatist may 
 "feign according to nature," not only in the dia- 
 logue and monologue of the historic figures, but 
 also by intermingling with them others, the breath 
 of whose life is the concentrated spirit of the 
 epoch represented. Such inventions are not jus- 
 tifiable merely, as being in keeping with the his- 
 toric picture ; they are demanded for the very 
 purpose of giving to historic fact more palpable 
 actuality. They are not mere ornaments, — for 
 as such they would be vicious weaknesses, — but 
 are serviceable adjuncts, which, by not only har- 
 monizing with the known personages, but by 
 giving higher relief to them and their deeds, 
 heighten and enlarge the dramatic effect. Being 
 secondary, they are Hke the flying buttresses of 
 a cathedral, which, although subordinate, give to 
 the edifice strength, as well as grace and expan- 
 sion. This dramatic privilege I have used, espe- 
 cially in the first and second Scenes, seeking by 
 means of it to bring more clearly to view the 
 public and military opinion and feeling of the 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 time, and by thus exhibiting the medium in 
 which the transactions occur, and by which they 
 are subtly influenced, to impart to the dramatic 
 picture more fulness and vivacity. 
 
 Whether or not Mrs. Arnold knew of her hus- 
 band's design was for some time uncertain. I 
 believe that the final judgment upon all the evi- 
 dence accessible is, that she did not. I should 
 in every case have eagerly seized upon and given 
 her the benefit of any doubt, as to suppose her 
 ignorant is grateful to humane and generous feel- 
 ing, besides making her dramatically more effec- 
 tive. 
 
 Washington appears in the first and last Scenes, 
 — thus infolding, as it were, the whole action in 
 his vast paternal arms ; but he is seen for a few 
 moments only, and at the bottom of the stage, 
 and is not heard. That the plot failed was re- 
 motely owing to him ; for when, after crossing the 
 river, as presented in the opening Scene, Arnold 
 at Peekskill showed him the letter just received 
 from Beverly Robinson, seemingly on private 
 
PREFACE, XV 
 
 business, and asking an interview, Washington, 
 with his habitual masterly prudence and benig- 
 nant watchfulness, forbade the interview, and this 
 prohibition it was that obliged the more circuitous 
 and more dangerous procedure. 
 
 The drama w^as finished some years since. One 
 Scene, the second of the first Act, was written 
 long ago, and was printed in 1840. 
 
 Newport^ R. I., December, 1863. 
 
ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The landing at Verplanclcs Point on the Hudson 
 River, September ISth, 1780. 
 
 Enter, on one side, Fleming, lame, and Vanukrg; on the 
 other, Sergeant Briggs, who has lost an arm; with him two 
 farmers, 
 
 FLEMING. 
 
 Well met, Sergeant Briggs. We are here on 
 the same errand, eh ? 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Aye, cripples that we are. Hard, is it not, 
 to be lazy lookers-on ? I '11 brook it no longer, 
 now that my stump is healed. There 's no snuff 
 like burnt gunpowder : it puts two lives into 
 the brain of a man. 
 
 2 
 
18 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. fAcr I. 
 
 FARMER. 
 
 And takes one from his arms. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Aye, neighbor, that was rare luck, when you 
 see how close the head is to the shoulders. I 've 
 my best arm left, and for that one the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief must find something to do. 
 
 ^ FLEMING. 
 
 It's certain, then, that he crosses the ferry this 
 afternoon ? 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Certain as the tide. My neighbor here was 
 over at Stony Point two hours ago. The Chief 
 is on his way to Hartford, to confer with the 
 French Commander, Count Rochambeau, lately 
 arrived at Newport. General Arnold has just 
 come down the river to meet him, and will 
 bring him over in a barge. 
 
 FLEMING. 
 
 Ha! then I shall have another look at General 
 Arnold. There 's a general for you, if ever 
 there was one. Could you have seen him at 
 
Scene I.] ARNOLD AND ANDR]^, 19 
 
 Behmus's Heights ! Like the wind, he was every- 
 where at once, and wherever he came, he blew 
 into us his own heat. That was a time when 
 we drove the Hessians from their encampment 
 The General and I fell together in the very 
 mouth of the sally-port, wounded in the same 
 leg. I say nothing against General Washington, 
 God bless him ; but this I do say, that if Arnold 
 Vas Commander-in-Chief there would be hotter 
 worE^and more battles. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Stick to your colors, Fleming : that 's right ; 
 I Hke that. But the fewer battles we fight, my 
 friend, the better. In a war like this, to know- 
 when 7iot to fight is the best generalship. Our 
 retreats have gained us more than our victories. 
 That I learned in the Jersey campaigns. To re- 
 treat is sometimes better even than to beat : it 
 spares ourselves and wears the enemy. 
 
 VANBERG. 
 
 I perceive, sir, that you are an apt scholar in 
 the school of Washington. 
 
20 ARNOLD AND ^ANDRE. [Act I. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 And pray, sir, in what school did you learn 
 the art of war ? 
 
 VANBEUG. 
 
 I am myself no soldier, but I had a son killed 
 at Saratoga, and have another in garrison at 
 West Point* 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Your pardon, sir. {Touching his hat.') The 
 father of such sons has a right to his opinions. 
 
 VANBERG. 
 
 No offence ; but our side never was in worse 
 plight than now. We have been routed in the 
 South, whence Sir Henry Clinton has just come 
 back with victorious troops to re enforce New 
 York. The second French armament, that was 
 to have been out ere this, is blockaded in Brest. 
 The first is shut up in Newport. Washington 
 is too weak to attack New York ; 't is as much 
 as~he can do to hold his own on the river. If 
 we lose West Point, we make our last retreat. 
 
Scene I.]" ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 21 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Our last retreat will be made by the last man 
 left of us into a bloody grave. But that will 
 never be. We '11 fight them back to the Alle- 
 ghany Mountains, and hold them there at bay 
 till our sons are big enough to fight in front of 
 us. Oh that I had a hundred arms, instead of 
 but one ! 
 
 Enter an old man with his grandson, fourteen years of age, 
 and two or three other citizens. 
 
 OLD MAN, to Briggs. 
 
 Can you tell me^ sir, is it true that General 
 Washington comes across the ferry this afternoon ? 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 He sent word that he is coming. That's 
 enough : he '11 come, — unless an earthquake 
 swallow up his horse. Him it will not swallow 
 up ; for He who makes earthquakes guards his 
 life as the most precious thing on earth at this 
 hour. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 You have seen him, sir ? 
 
22 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act I. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 A hundred times. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Is there that greatness in his look, that I have 
 heaM speak of? 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 • There is that in his aspect that you feel your- 
 self grow larger as you look at him, as a tree 
 grows by looking at the sun. There is in him 
 such *a soul, that men get suddenly strong by his 
 side. Have you come to look on him ? 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Aye, sir, and that this boy may have sight of 
 him. His father, my son, is a dragoon in the 
 camp. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Ha ! Then you shall have speech of him, too, 
 if you wish it. He knows me, and if he did 
 not, this (striking the stump of Ms lost arni) 
 would be a passport to his eye, and from that to 
 his heart. 
 
ScKKEl.] ARNOLD AND ANDR:E. 23 
 
 FLEMING. 
 
 There 's the barge ! 
 
 [ The aj^proacMng barge is visible from the stage.'] 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Aje, so it is, and full of officers. As yet I 
 cannot make them out. Lafayette, the noble 
 young Frenchman, will be among them. 
 
 FLEMING. 
 
 There 's General Arnold. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 That 's Washington in the centre, is it not ? 
 
 BBIGGS. 
 
 Aye, and beside him, on his left, is Lafayette. 
 
 FLEMING. 
 
 And Arnold is on his right. 
 
 BKIGGS. 
 
 There, Washington is speaking to Lafayette. 
 The stout one next to Arnold is General Knox 
 of the artillery, a Boston boy. He was a volun- 
 teer at Bunker Hill, and has been in every battle 
 in the Jerseys. General Washington likes to 
 have him near himself. 
 
24 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act I. 
 
 Is General Greene, of Rhode Island, there? 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 No. The Commander-in-Chief, while absent, 
 leaves him in command; and worthiest is he to 
 till so great a place. 
 
 FLEMING. 
 
 Sergeant, who are the two behind ? 
 
 Ah ! now I know them. The one directly be- 
 hind Lafayette is young Hamilton, whom Wash- 
 ington loves as a son and trusts as a brother. 
 The other is Lee of Virginia, — Major Lee, called 
 Light-horse Harry. He, too, has a place in the 
 heart of the chief. Of these three, Lee, the 
 oldest, is only twenty-four, Lafayette and Ham- 
 ilton twenty- three. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 So young and so ripe ! 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 They are about to land. Arnold is helping 
 Washington out of the barge. 
 
Scene L] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 25 
 
 lAs Washington steps on the shore, Briggs and all the others lijl 
 their hats, which salutation Washington returns, and then, 
 accovipanied by the officers, passes from the stage at the side, 
 tdthout coming any nearer to the audience. Briggs and the 
 others go out on the same side, except the Old Man and his 
 grandson, who remainJl 
 
 GRANDSON. 
 
 See, sir ; he is speaking to the gentleman 
 with one arm. But, grandfather, how sad he 
 looks. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Very sad, — very sad. Take that look into 
 thy heart, my boy : human eyes will never see 
 a greater. 
 
 GRANDSON. 
 
 He is mounting his horse. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 What a majestic air! My son, when you shall 
 be as old as I am, this hour will be priceless to 
 your grandchildren, and men will have a joy in 
 seeing the man who saw Washington. 
 
 GRANDSON. 
 
 What a fine horse he rides ! There he goes. 
 
26 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act I. 
 OLD MAN, taking off his hat. 
 
 Thank Heaven, I have seen him. What a 
 
 man ! What a man ! {Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 New York. 
 Sir Henry Clinton, Colonel Robinson, an Old British Officer. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 RebeUion's tattered banner droops at last, 
 Wanting the breath of eager confidence. 
 Discord, twin-brother to defeat, now hfts 
 Within the Congress walls her husky voice, 
 (Fit sound for rebel ears,) and in their camp 
 Lean want breeds discontent and mutiny : 
 The while, o'er our embattled squadrons poised. 
 High-crested factory flaps fi-eshened wings. 
 Fanning the fires of native valiantness. 
 Quickly shall peace revisit this vext land. 
 So long bestrid by war, whose iron heel 
 With her own life-blood madlv stains her sides. 
 
SCE.NE II.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 27 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Our arms' success upon the southern shore, — 
 Whose thirsty sands are saturate with streams 
 From rebel wounds, — and the discomfiture 
 Of new-born hopes of aid from fickle France, 
 Brought on by Rodney's timely coming, have 
 Even to the stoutest hearts struck cold dismay. 
 
 OLD OFFICER. 
 
 Cast down they may be, but despair 's unknown 
 To their determined spirits. Washington 's 
 The same as when in '76 he passed 
 The Delaware, and, in a darker hour 
 Than this is, rallied his disheartened troops. 
 And, by a stroke of generalship as shrewd 
 As bold, back turned the tide of victory. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 But years of fruitless warfare, sucking up 
 The people's blood alike and daily substance. 
 Weigh on th' exhausted land, like helpless debts 
 Of foiled enterprise, that clog the step 
 Of action. 
 
28 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act 
 
 OLD OFFICER. 
 
 Deem ye not the spirit dulled 
 "Which first impelled this people to take arms 
 And brave our mighty power, nor yet extinct 
 The hope which has their energies upheld 
 Against such fearfiil odds. The blood they 've shed 
 Is blood of martyrs, — consecrated oil, — 
 Rich fuel to the flame that 's boldly lit 
 On Freedom's altar, and whose dear perfume, 
 Upward ascending, is by heroes snuffed. 
 Strengthening the soul of patriotic love 
 With ireful vengeance. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 Whence, my veteran Colonel, 
 Comes it, that you, whose scarred body bears 
 The outward proofs of inward loyalty. 
 Will entertain for rebels such reo;ard ? 
 
 OLD OFFICER. 
 
 Custom of war hath not so steeled my heart, 
 But that its pulse will beat in admiration 
 Of noble deeds, even those by foemen done ; 
 Nor does my sworn allegiance to my king 
 
Scene II.] ARNOLD AND ANDRJ^:. 29 
 
 Ban sympathy for men who war for rights 
 Inherited from British ancestors. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 Their yet unconquered souls, and the stern front 
 
 They have so long opposed in equal strife 
 
 To a war-practised soldiery, attest 
 
 Their valor ; and for us to stint the meed 
 
 Of praise for gallant bearing in the field, 
 
 Were self-disparagement, seeing that still 
 
 They hold at bay our much out-numbering host. 
 
 But for the justice of their cause, — the wrong, 
 
 Skilled to bedeck itself in garb of right, 
 
 Oft cheats the conscience' lax credulity, 
 
 And thus, with virtue's armature engirt. 
 
 Will vice fight often unabashed. Unloose 
 
 The spurs wherewith desire of change, the pride 
 
 Of will, hot blood of restless, uncurbed youth, 
 
 Wanting a distant parent's discipline. 
 
 And bad ambition of aspiring chiefs. 
 
 Do prick them on to this unnatural war, 
 
 And then how tamed would be their fiery mettle, 
 
 Heated alone by patriotic warmth. 
 
30 ARNOLD AND ANDRJE. [Act I. 
 
 OLD OFFICER. 
 
 My General, I know this people well ; 
 
 And all tlie virtues which Old England claims, 
 
 As the foundations of her happiness 
 
 And greatness, — such as reverence of law 
 
 And custom, justice, female chastity. 
 
 And, with them, independence, fortitude, 
 
 Courage, and sturdiness of purpose, — are 
 
 Transplanted here from their maternal soil, 
 
 And flourish undegenerate. From these — 
 
 Sources exhaustible but with the life 
 
 That feeds them — their severe intents take birth, 
 
 And draw the lusty sustenance to mould 
 
 The limbs and body of their own fulfilment, 
 
 So that performance lag not after purpose. 
 
 They are our countrymen : they are, as well 
 
 In nianly resolution as in blood, 
 
 The children of our fathers. Washington 
 
 Doth ken no other language than the one 
 
 We speak ; and never did an English tongue 
 
 Give voice unto a larger, wiser mind. 
 
 You '11 task your judgment vainly to descry, 
 
Scene 11.] ARNOLD AND ANDR3. 31 
 
 Through all this desperate conflict, in his plans 
 
 A flaw, or fault in execution. He 
 
 In spirit is unconquerable, as 
 
 In genius perfect. Side by side I fought 
 
 With him in that disastrous enterprise 
 
 Where hot-brained Braddock fell ; and there I 
 
 marked 
 The veteran's skill contend for mastery 
 With youthful courage in his wondrous deeds. 
 Well might the ruthless Indian warrior pause. 
 Amid his massacre confounded, and 
 His baffled rifle's aim, till then unerring. 
 Turn from " that tall young man," and deem in 
 
 awe ^ 
 
 That the Great Spirit hovered over him ; 
 For he, of all our mounted officers. 
 Alone came out unscathed from that dread car- 
 nage. 
 To guard our shattered army's swifl: retreat. 
 For years did his majestic form hold place 
 Upon my mind, stamped in that perilous hour, 
 In th' image of a stalwart friend, until 
 
32 ARNOLD AND ANDRE, [Act I. 
 
 I met him next as a resistless foe. 
 
 'T was at the fight near Princeton. In quick 
 
 march, 
 Victorious o'er his van, onward we pressed, 
 When, moving with firm pace, led by the chief 
 Himself, their central force encountered us. 
 One moment paused th' opposing hosts, and 
 
 then 
 The rattling volley hid the death it bore ; 
 Another, and the sudden cloud, uprolled, 
 Revealed, midway between the adverse lines, 
 His drawn sword gleaming high, the chief, — as 
 
 though 
 That crash of deadly music and the burst 
 Of sulphurous vapor had from out the earth 
 Summoned the god of war. Doubly imperilled 
 He stood unharmed. Like eagles tempest-borne 
 Rushed to his side his men ; and had our souls 
 And arms with tenfold strength been braced, we 
 
 yet 
 Had not withstood that onset. Thus does he 
 Keep ever with occasion even step, — 
 
ScExNE II.] ARNOLD AND ANDR:^. 33 
 
 Now, mockingly before our angry speed 
 Retreating, tempting us with battle's promise 
 Only to toil us with a vain pursuit, — 
 Now, wheeling rapidly about our flanks, 
 StartUng our ears with sudden peal of war, 
 And fronting in the thickest of the fight 
 The common soldier's death, stirring the blood 
 Of faintest hearts to deeds of bravery 
 By his great presence, — and his every act, 
 Of heady onslaught as of backward march, 
 From thoughtful judgment first inferred. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 If you 
 Report him truly, and your la\dsh words 
 Be not the wings to float a brain-born vision, 
 But are true heralds who deliver what 
 In corporal doings will be stern avouched. 
 Then was this man born to command ; and shall 
 Ingi-ate revolt be justified by fate, 
 Ajid Britain's side bleed with the rendino; off 
 Of this vast member ; they will find it so, 
 Who seek to gain a greater liberty 
 
34 ARNOLD AND ANDR:^. [Act I. 
 
 Than profitetli man's passion-mastered state. 
 Jove's bird as soon shall quail his cloud-wet 
 
 plumage, 
 Sinking his sinewy wafture to the flight 
 Of common pinions, — or the silent tide 
 Break its mysterious law at the wind's bidding, 
 Remitting for a day its mighty flood 
 Upon this shore, — as that, one recognized 
 To have all kingly qualities shall not 
 Assert his natural supremacy, 
 And weaker men submit to his full sway. 
 Power doth grow unto the palm that wields it. 
 The necks that bend to make ambition's seat 
 Must still uphold its overtopping weight. 
 Or, moving, be crushed under it. 
 
 OLD OFFICER. 
 
 And heads 
 That quit the roof of sheltering peace, and bare 
 
 them 
 To war's fierce lightning for a principle, 
 Becrown the limbs of men, each one a rock 
 Baffling with loftiness ambition's step, 
 
Scene II.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 35 
 
 Whose ladder is servility. Were they 
 Susceptible of usurpation's sway, 
 This conflict had not been ; and then the world 
 Had missed a Washington, whose greatness is 
 Of greatness born. Him have they raised, be- 
 cause 
 Of his great worth ; and he has headed them, 
 For that they knew to value him. Had he 
 Been less, then they had passed him by ; and had 
 Their souls lacked nobleness, his towering trunk, 
 Scanted of genial sap, had failed to reach 
 Its proper altitude. No smiling time 
 Is this for hypocritical ambition 
 To cheat men's minds with virtue's counterfeit. 
 What made him Washington, makes him the 
 
 chief 
 Of this vast league, — and that 's integrity, 
 The which his regal qualities enlinks 
 In one great arch, to bear the sudden weight 
 Of a new cause, and, strengthening ever, hold 
 Compact 'gainst time's all-whelming step. 
 
86 ARNOLD AND ANDR:E. [Act I. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 What now 
 You speak, you '11 be reminded of, belike, 
 Ere many weeks are passed ; and well I know, 
 Your arm will not be backward, if there 's need, 
 To prove your own words' falsity. Meanwhile, 
 Hold you in readiness for sudden march. 
 
 \_Exit Old Officer. 
 
 EOBINSON. 
 
 A better soldier than a prophet. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 - Yet, 
 Scarce does his liberal extolment stretch 
 Beyond its object's dues. Were Washington 
 Not rooted in his compeers' confidence. 
 And in his generalship unmatched, this league 
 Had long since crumbled from within, and o'er 
 Its severed bands our arms had quickly triumphed. 
 In all, his mighty spirit 's ordinant. 
 The while his warriors, ranged in council round 
 
 him. 
 Listen to plans of learned generalship, 
 
Scene II.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 37 
 
 Within the Congress is his voiceless will 
 
 Potential as the whitest senator's. 
 
 Ever between their reehng cause and us 
 
 Comes his stern brow, to awe fell Ruin's spirit. 
 
 'T is a grand game he plays, and, by my soul, 
 
 Worthy the game and player is the stake. 
 
 A fair broad land it is for a new kingdom : 
 
 If he can win it, let him wear it. — Still naught 
 
 From Arnold ? Washington's keen vigilance 
 
 Will yet defeat this plot. Delay is fatal. 
 
 KOBINSON. 
 
 He 's now near Arnold's post. If he depart, 
 (As 't is his plan, to hold an interview 
 With the French leaders at the town of Hart- 
 ford,) 
 We '11 know he harbors no suspicious thought ; 
 And then we cannot fail. His presence there 
 Is hindrance absolute to any movement, 
 Whether he do suspect or not. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 This Arnold, — 
 That he did vow in hate is warranty 
 
38 ARNOLD AND ANDRJE. [Act I. 
 
 That what he promised he designed to do. 
 
 But what then gave him means and power to 
 
 compass 
 His wishes' end may, too, have changed their 
 
 bent; 
 For opportunity, that oftentimes 
 Creates desire, doth sometimes blunt its edge. 
 The hiffh command wherewith he has been 
 
 o 
 
 trusted 
 May heal the wound 't was sought for to re- 
 quite. 
 His now position is a vantage-ground. 
 Whence he as easily may wipe away 
 As venge his past disgrace. Beneath his malice 
 Still burns th' aspiring soldier's love of fame. 
 Still beats the husband's and the father's heart. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 There 's in him no live seed of honesty. 
 
 For the pure dews of natural affection 
 
 To quicken with their sweetness. And the cord. 
 
 Wherewith ambitiously he swung himself 
 
 Aloft o'er revolution's dark abyss. 
 
Scene II.] ARNOLD AND ANDR:^. 39 
 
 Has rotted in his hand ; and now he 'd leap 
 Th' audacious backward leap of desperation. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 You know the passes to the fort. Can he, 
 Without suspicion of his purposes, 
 Expose them to our easy mastering ? 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 That can he, and deliver to our hands 
 The fortress, ere the garrison have time 
 To counteract their own astonishment. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 This post were worth a dozen victories. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 It is their common magazine, wherein 
 Are stored munitions for a year's campaign. 
 To gain it, were to turn into ourselves 
 A stream of hoarded sustenance for war, 
 And by diversion of so full a spring. 
 Wither in them the sinews of contention. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 Weak are they now from our late triumphs, 
 And repetition of unfruitful blows. 
 
40 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act I. 
 
 The sudden yawning under them of this 
 Great treachery will strike their souls with awe, 
 Appall their boldest, and unheart them quite. 
 Can a resolve, whose execution shall 
 Flash such quick desolation, lie so deep 
 That no pale shadow or vague murmur come 
 Presaging to the general mind ? But here 
 Is Andre, and in his countenance a light 
 The 'prologue to some joyful new^s. 
 
 Enter Andre. 
 
 What bring you ? 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 Tidings that promise to our scheme a quick 
 And happy consummation. Hear what I 
 This moment have received : 
 
 \^He takes out a letter^ and reads as follows ;] 
 
 "Our master goes away on the 17th [yesterday] of 
 this month. He will be absent five or six days. Let 
 us avail ourselves of this interval to arrange our busi- 
 ness. Come immediately and meet me at the lines, 
 and we will settle definitely the risks and profits of 
 the copartnership. All will be ready ; but this inter- 
 view is indispensable, and must precede the sailing of 
 our ship." 
 
Scene IL] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 41 
 
 SIR II. CLINTON. 
 
 Now hold he true, we fail not. Robinson, 
 What think you ? Should he prove a double 
 traitor ? 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 He dare not, if he would. If that his limbs 
 Lay at your feet here prostrate with the load 
 Of chains, more captive were he not to you 
 Tlum now he is behind his trenched walls. 
 Whate'er betide, he can't 'scape infamy ; 
 And from no hand but ours receive its price. 
 Doubly a traitor, he were doubly lost. 
 His only safety lies in truth to us. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 Are we not safe, too, 'gainst his treachery ? 
 
 We hazard nothing ; for our sorest loss 
 
 Is but defeat of hope. And if we win, 
 
 Our gain is infinite. Not even aught 
 
 Of personal peril 's in the plan we spoke of. 
 
 Seize we the moment, and a wound we give 
 
 Shall cleave in twain rebellion's stubborn heart. 
 
42 ARNOLD AND ANDR^. [Act I. 
 
 ROBIIJSON. 
 
 This interview must be ; or else, no act. 
 
 For, till he meet us face to face, as still 
 
 And secret as a voiceless dream must lie 
 
 Within his breast the thought of what he 'd do. 
 
 CJnto no other ear dare he reveal 
 
 The plot or means for its accomplishment. 
 
 We must risk something 'gainst his single daring. 
 
 The private business that 't is known I have, 
 
 Will be our pretext openly to near 
 
 His lines, and safeguard afterwards. A flag 
 
 Will cover then our meeting. 
 
 SIR H. CLINTON. 
 
 And meanwhile, 
 Troops shall embark, and be in readiness 
 To move on your return. Now despatch, — 
 And ere thrice thirty hours are passed, I '11 pluck 
 From wary Washington's high wing a plume, 
 That shall so maim its flight that to my reach 
 'Twill flutter helplessly. {Exeunt. 
 
Scene I-l ARNOLD AND ANDRjS, 43 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Arnold's Head-quarters, 
 ARNOLD, alone. 
 
 So armed is he with foresight, his broad eye 
 
 Unknowing balks the cheating future's practice. 
 
 He cautioned me against the flag of truce : 
 
 To let it pass might kindle now suspicion. 
 
 Andr^ himself will come ; and he shall meet me 
 
 Within our lines. There is no other way. 
 
 He 's young and venturesome ; and then his risk 
 
 Is small to mine. And I risk naught: my life. 
 
 A soldier's life belongs not to himself: 
 
 'Tis war's light plaything. Mine I've often cast 
 
 Into the cannon's red-mouthed deafening rage. 
 
 And for this unconditioned sacrifice, 
 
 For trophies, victories, hardships, losses, wounds. 
 
 What have I ? . Poverty, neglect, injustice. 
 
 Defrauded of my pay ; my claims contemned ; 
 
44 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 My rank, my sword- won rank, long scanted me. 
 My power as foe shall teach this wrangling Con- 
 gress 
 My worth as friend. England is still my country. 
 I 've been a rebel ; and I 'II do deep penance 
 
 For my disloyalty. — But if they win 
 
 What sound is that? Arnold the traitor! Ha! 
 
 The traitor Arnold! Are my ears asleep 
 
 And dreaming ? There ! Who spoke ? I '11 
 
 swear I heard it. 
 And now my eyes abet my ears. See there, — 
 A multitude of millions, millions, stretching. 
 Stretching o'er mountains, prairies, endless, end- 
 less ! 
 One angry voice from all, Arnold the traitor! 
 'T is false ; you lie, you lie ; I am no traitor. 
 I unmake what I 've made. This cause, this 
 
 country, 
 'Twas my soul warmed, 'twas my hand built it, 
 
 mine. 
 1 may uproot what I myself have planted. — 
 But if I fail Now is my name emblazoned 
 
Scene I.] ARNOLD AND ANDRJ^. 45 
 
 High up on Glory's time-proof column, linked 
 
 To Washington's. Too late, 't is now too late. — 
 
 Acrain that fearful sound ! Silence, or I 
 
 Go mad. Am I a baby? There, 'tis hushed. 
 
 I shame to be so shaken. Ha ! ha I ha ! 
 
 What fools imagination makes of us. 
 
 Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 What hast thou ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Didst thou hear naught? 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Hear ! Where ? What ails thee ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Nothing, nothing, nothing. 
 I 've had ill news again from Congress ; that 's all. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 The thankless men ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 In Philadelphia, tell me, 
 What didst thou gather? 
 
46 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 That your enemies 
 Are strong as aje, and still more bitter. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Ha! 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Some dare to say you are not worth this post. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Ha ! say they so ? — (^Aside.^ I '11 prove them 
 
 prophets yet. — 
 But of the war what 's thought ? 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 That it cannot last 
 Much longer. Some, the bolder, say so freely ; 
 Some whisper it ; and some, the timid ones, 
 Shrug up their shoulders and look blank ; but all 
 Are sick of it, and sigh for speedy peace. 
 While I was there came news of Gates's rout. 
 Men were aghast. The hopefullest faces fell. 
 The streets all hissed with railing : some at Gates, 
 Others at Washington, the most at Congress. 
 Three out of four are ready for submission ; 
 
Scene L] ARNOLD AND ANDR:E. 47 
 
 And should there come another big defeat, 
 The Congress will not hold a week together. 
 Oh, would that chance, which drops us where it 
 
 lists, 
 Had planted you upon the other side ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 You 'd have me quit a losing cause 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Nay, nay. 
 The cause is yours, for better or for worse. 
 You're married to it. So lono; ao^o was done 
 This work of spiteful chance, the seed hath 
 
 grown 
 To such a stature, that to wrench it now 
 Would tear up honor by the bleeding roots, 
 And cast you level with its prostrate trunk. 
 Oh, no ! My maiden hopes, 't is true, were Eng- 
 lish ; 
 And I with Andrd and the rest have lauo-hed. 
 How many a time, — spoilt nursling that I 
 
 was, — 
 At Continental rago-edness and shifts. 
 
48 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 But now I 'm Arnold's wife ; and from the day 
 That I consented to be that, the cause, 
 Whereof he is a trusted chief, is mine. " 
 And, know you, I begin to honor it, 
 /To spy a greatness 'hind its shrunken visage. 
 In Philadelphia my old friends and I, 
 We ano-ered one another with warm words 
 And daily contradiction. Washington, 
 Your friend, our towering head, the man of men, 
 Even he escapes not their coarse jests and ran- 
 cor. 
 The more they jibed, the more my thoughts 
 
 hugged thee 
 And our dear boy ; and from their banterings 
 I fled to waking dreams of his great future, — 
 How his illustrious name will usher him 
 To eminence in the hard-won Republic ; 
 How in the street people will smile upon him, 
 And gray-haired men will boast they knew his 
 
 father. 
 And now I think of it, 'tis two days since 
 Thou hast asked to see him. 
 
Scene I-l ARNOLD AND ANDR:E. 49 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Is he well ? 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 A lump 
 Of rosy health, and hourly more like thee. 
 
 [Arnold bursts into tears.] 
 
 Great Heaven ! My husband ! What hast thou ? 
 
 thou 'rt ill. 
 Never before did I behold thee weep. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 I 'm ill, — to horse, to horse, — I must i' th' air. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 ATTENDANT. 
 
 A letter, sir, this moment brought in haste. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Ha ! from whom ? [Exit Attendant, 
 
 [Arnold tears open the letter^ and devours its contents."] 
 
 I must away on th' instant. 
 
 [Rushes out. 
 MRS. ARNOLD, gazhig at him astounded, and then wildly. 
 
 Ha ! — No. — Oh, agony ! it cannot be. [Exit. 
 
 4 
 
50 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Cabin of the British &loop-of-war " Vulture" lying in 
 the Hudson River, a few miles below Kinfs Ferry, 
 toivards midnight, September 21s^. 
 
 Colonel Robinson, Major Andre, and Captain Sutherland, com- 
 mander of the ''^Vulturey 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 You '11 pardon me, Captain, for thinking, spite 
 of my quarters and my company, that this sail- 
 or's life up a river is as tedious as fishing with 
 an unbated hook. It 's neither Avork nor play. 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 I am entirely of your mind. Major. It smacks 
 too much of the land-service for my palate. But 
 have patience. Your friend, General Arnold, will 
 soon relieve you. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 The General is as cautious in his diplomacy as 
 he is headlong in the field. If he come not to- 
 night, I shall think he has changed his mind. 
 
Scene II.] ARNOLD AND ANDR^, 51 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Whether his mind be changed or not, he can- 
 not now retreat. We have too strono; a cord 
 round liis neck for that. 
 
 [27«e watch on deck strikes eight bells.] 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 What's that? Not midnight. 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 Aye, all of it. 
 
 OFFICER OF THE WATCH, Oil the deck obove. 
 
 Boat alio J ! 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Hark ! There he is. 
 
 VOICE, from the boat. 
 
 A friend. 
 
 OFFICER, on deck. 
 
 Where from, and whither bound ? 
 
 VOICE. 
 
 From King's Ferry to Dobbs's Ferry. 
 
 OFFICER, on deck. 
 
 You lubberly land-shark, how dare you, under 
 cover of the night, get within the buoys of one 
 
52 ARNOLD AND ANDR:^. [Act II. 
 
 of His Majesty's ships? Spring your lufF and 
 come along-side, you son of a sea-cook, or I '11 
 deaden your headway before you can say your 
 prayers. 
 
 ANDKlfi. 
 
 A savory salutation that to a major-general. 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 That's old Rowley, the best deck-officer in the 
 service. — Murphy! QEnter a hoy,) A man has 
 just come on deck from a boat. Go up and 
 bring him to the cabin. 
 
 MURPHY. 
 
 Ay, ay, sir. [/areV. 
 
 BOBINSON. 
 
 We are not sure that this is Arnold. It will 
 be prudent for you, Major Andr^, to withdraw 
 into your state-room. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 You were ever a good mentor, Colonel. [Exii. 
 
 Enter Smith. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Mr. Smith, I believe. 
 
Scene II.] ARNOLD AND ANDR^, 63 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 Colonel Robinson, I'm glad to see you again. 
 I bring you a letter from General Arnold. 
 
 ^Gives the letter^ which Bobinson readsJ] 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Have you any other papers ? 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 Two passports. 
 
 [Gives them to Bobinson.] 
 
 KOBINSON. 
 
 This one (reading') authorizes you "to go to 
 Dobbs's Ferry to carry some letters of a private 
 nature for a gentleman in New York, and to re- 
 turn immediately." The other is a " permission 
 to Joshua Smith, Mr. John Anderson, and two 
 servants, to pass and repass the guards near 
 King's Ferry, at all times." Where is General 
 Arnold? 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 He waits at the landing, where I left him half 
 an hour since. 
 
54 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Mr. Smith, I '11 leave you for a few moments 
 with Captain Sutherland. {Exit. 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 Take a seat, sir. (^Both sitS) When do you 
 think, Mr. Smith, this war will end. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 When there shall be neither a British soldier 
 on our soil, nor a British gun in our waters. 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 Oh ! then you prize the war so much, you mean 
 to leave it as an heirloom to your grandchildren ? 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 I give you our final terms, come what may. 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 But, seriously, your side looks very black just 
 now. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 It has looked black from the first, and looks 
 now blacker than ever ; but it is the blackness 
 of the thunder-cloud, — the blacker it is, the more 
 lightning there is in it. 
 
Scene IL] ARNOLD AND ANDRjS. S5 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 Well said, by Jove. It can't be denied, there 's 
 good stuff in your fellows. And for my part, 
 Mr. Smith, I tell you frankly, I hate this war, 
 and heartily wish it over, — ■ aye, and I '11 say 
 more, — I wish it over without loss of honor to 
 either side. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 I wish, then, from my heart, Captain Suther- 
 land, that you were Prime-Minister of England. 
 Permit me, though, to say, that we might with- 
 out loss of honor lose our cause ; and that, would 
 not suit our temper. Honor is a good thing, 
 useful at times, as well as ornamental ; but it 
 follows in the wake of our cause, and if we lose 
 that, we shall not take the trouble to j)iek honor 
 
 U,). 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 You count largely on your French allies. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 More on their hatred of you than on their 
 love for us. 
 
56 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 SUTHEKLAND. 
 
 They say that General Washington is gone to 
 Hartford to meet the French commanders. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 Captain, how many spies do you keep in your 
 service ? 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 Always, Mr. Smith, one less than you keep 
 in yours. 
 
 Reenter Colonel Robinson, accompanied by Major Andre, in a 
 blue overcoat ivith cape close buttoned. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Mr. Smith, I am not well enough to go out 
 in an open boat in the night. My friend here, 
 Mr. Anderson, understands the business about 
 which the General and I were to confer, and is 
 ready to accompany you. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 The business is yours. Colonel, and not mine. 
 I am but a go-between 'twixt you and the Gen- 
 eral, happy to serve both of you in any honor- 
 able way. It is already so late, I advise that 
 we start at once. 
 
Scene II.] ARNOLD AND ANDR^. 57 
 
 Andre'. 
 
 The sooner the better. Farewell, Colonel ; fare- 
 well, Captain. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 God bless you, my friend. Don't forget your 
 instructions. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 No fear of that. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Farewell. 
 
 Gentlemen, good night. ^Exeunt Smith and Andre. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 This business disquiets me. Captain. I opposed 
 Andre's going on shore; but he is eager, and 
 would not be overruled. I have misgivings. 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 I see no cause for them. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 Think what a man we are deahng with. Of 
 Andre's safety what thought will he take who is 
 capable of such a treason ? 
 
58 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 SUTHERLAND. 
 
 But observe how thoughtful he has been of 
 his own safety ; and henceforth that is bound 
 closely up with the safety of Andrd. 
 
 ROBINSON. 
 
 True, but villains are so apt to be botchers ; 
 they leave a flaw somewhere, villany so blinds 
 the judgment. From a bad heart there rises 
 into the brain a sickly breath that dims the 
 mind's vision. We will hope for the best. 
 
 [ExeunU 
 
 SCENE ni. 
 
 Foot of a mountain called the Long Glove^ on the 
 western shore of the river, several miles below Stony 
 Point. One hour and a half after midnight, Sep- 
 tember 22d. 
 
 ARNOLD, alone. 
 
 I like to be alone, and in the night. 
 Darkness and my deep purpose are attuned ; 
 For that is dark and natural as night, 
 
Scene III.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE, 59 
 
 Aye, and as wholesome too. Wherefore not 
 
 wholesome ? 
 Strong men are their own law. 'T is meant 
 
 they should be. 
 Else, wherefore have they that which builds the 
 
 world ? 
 Poor weaklings pile about their httleness 
 A rampart of conventions, which the strong 
 Storm with their intellectual squadrons deep, 
 Making the garrison slaves irredeemable. 
 Let them cry shame and conscience as they will. 
 Conscience, forsooth ! Where are there two alike ? 
 Fools set their conscience by their neighbors' 
 
 wants. 
 My wants — they are a liberal hungry crew — 
 Make mine. Life is a game, where strong will 
 
 wins, 
 A war, where stratagem and force are victors. 
 Never from boyhood have I dreaded aught. 
 Shall I begin so late, and wince with fear 
 Before the chief of changelings, vile opinion, 
 The whitest coward of the coward world ? 
 
60 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 Traitor! England calls Washington a traitor. 
 What if I help to prove him one. I hate him, 
 With his chill stateliness, his wise reserve, 
 His stubborn prudence, and his calm directness. 
 Of all the men I 've known, only with him 
 I am not at my ease. It angers me, 
 To feel my nature is rebuked by his. 
 A withering frost I '11 be to his young greatness. 
 Striking with palsy their pale bankrupt cause. 
 In this coarse world failure is ignominy. — 
 The night wears fast away. 'Tis time he camer 
 Had I been sure of Smith, myself had gone. 
 It had been quicker done. But he 's so vain. 
 The best of marplots is glib vanity. 
 The night is cool. I'll walk awhile. iwithdraws. 
 Enter Smith loith Andre. 
 
 SMITH, cautiously. 
 
 General! General! I left him hereabout. I'll 
 seek him. He will not be far. ^exU 
 
 ANDRE, alone. 
 
 Moments there are when thought is so ablaze 
 With all the fires that have inflamed a life, 
 
Scene III.] ARNOLD AND ANDR:E. 61 
 
 That memory is one great grasping light, 
 
 Flashed on the present from the total past. 
 
 I seem not to have lived till now, so burning 
 
 Is my new consciousness. 'T is said that men. 
 
 In the last agony of drowning, are 
 
 Thus flooded with their faded motley years 
 
 In one fresh rounded instantaneous picture, — 
 
 Life gathering to a point its ^scattered beams. 
 
 To shine its earthly last with warmest flush. 
 
 And, robed in full collected brightness, usher 
 
 The rising soul to a diviner home. 
 
 My mind 's aglow with happiest light, possessed 
 
 As by illuminated memories. 
 
 There, they are fading, fading fast, like to th' ebb 
 
 From blissful clouds of golden beams at evening. 
 
 What a vast waking dream ! so strangely true, — 
 
 A sudden blossomy limning of my life 
 
 By beauty's cleansing brush. 'T is going, — gone. 
 
 Come back, come back, and wrap me yet awhile 
 
 In 
 
 [His arm is grasped by Arnold, who has just reenter ed.\ 
 
 General Arnold ! 
 
62 ARNOLD AND ANDRJS. [Act II. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Major Anclre ! 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 Are we alone ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 We are. A momentous business is this we 
 have to do. Are you fully empowered. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 Fully. We stand on neutral ground? 
 
 ARNOLD 
 
 Aye ; no fear. 
 
 Enter Smith. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 General, you know the boat must be sent up 
 the river before daybreak. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 For that there 's time enough. The boatmen 
 can sleep an hour on their oars. Let us (J:o 
 Andre) withdraw a little from the shore. 
 
 [Arnold and Andre xoithdraw. 
 SMITH, alone. 
 
 Humph ! He treats me as though I were one 
 
Scene III.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 63 
 
 of his corporals. What can he have to say to a 
 Tory that an honest ear might not hsten to ? 
 Your great men always have secrets. Mystery 
 is the garment of greatness ; it helps to keep it 
 warm. But what is to keep me warm ? To 
 play sentinel in this air for an hour would give 
 me a tertian, if I had not one already. 
 
 Enter Arnold. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Smith, we can't finish our business here. Send 
 the boat round to the creek, and follow us up 
 to the house. [^exH 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 The General's voice is always set to the mili- 
 tary pitch. Orders come as glib from his tongue 
 as foul speech from a sailor. Well, I 'm thankful 
 to be let off so easily. Colqulioun ! ( Calling.^ 
 Colquhoun ! These two boatmen brothers make 
 good the saying, Coarse feeders, sound sleepers. 
 Colquhoun ! But there 's no use in calling. 
 Fellows that snore like the croak of a pond of 
 bull-frogs praying for rain, will not wake before 
 
G4 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 dawn to anything less than a twenty-four pounder. 
 By fist, not tongue, are they to be roused. 
 
 \_Exit on the side opposite to thai at which Arnold loent out. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A room in Smith's house, early morning. 
 
 Arnold and Andri5, seated at a table with writing materials. 
 Andre in his uniform coat. 
 
 ANDRE, rising. 
 
 They Avere the last orders Sir Henry Clinton 
 gave me, positive orders, to take no papers. 
 
 ARNOLD, remains seated. 
 
 Then Sir Henry Clinton cannot take West 
 Point. Have you. Major, the memory of Mithri- 
 dates ? Can you, by word of mouth, deliver to 
 Sir Henry a plan of the whole system of de- 
 fences at West Point : the number and calibre 
 of guns in each fort, redoubt, and batter}^ ; the 
 construction, size, and strength of each ; the 
 amount and quality of the force within the 
 
Scene IV.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. Q^ 
 
 works ; and the distribution of the several corps 
 in case of alarm? All these details, full, pre- 
 cise, without error, Sir Henry must have, before 
 he, with hope of success, can move against a 
 position so fortified. Without this key of knowl- 
 edge, the post remains locked against him in 
 spite of us both. Even with it there would be 
 in the assault some loss of life. What matters 
 it whether you risk yours then or now ? it 's for 
 the same end. For a soldier, methinks, you cal- 
 culate adverse chances too curiously. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 My life is my King's; but my honor is my 
 own. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 That thought comes to you some hours too 
 late. 
 
 ANDR^, aside. 
 
 The villain is right. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Come, Major, be calm. Your risk is less than 
 mine ; and see how cool I am. After all, the 
 
QQ ARNOLD AND ANDRJS. [Act II. 
 
 danger is not much ; and for clearing what there 
 is, trust to chance, or if you like the word bet- 
 ter, to Providence. 
 
 ANDRE, aside. 
 
 That I should be closely coupled with such a 
 wretch ! Ever since I met him, my blood creeps 
 like that of a coward. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Pardon me for reminding you of the greatness 
 of your mission. At this moment you are the 
 most important man in His Majesty's service. 
 On your doing well what you were sent to do, 
 hangs the issue of this war. This one success 
 makes your fortune. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 Give me the papers. 
 
 ARNOLD, rising. 
 
 There are six of them, Qgives them,') each one 
 labelled. Those papers are too cheap at ten 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 That is the limit of my power. 
 
Scene IV.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 67 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Were I face to face with Sir Henry, he 
 should double that sum. Say to him that I 
 expect it. Now, the sooner he moves the bet- 
 ter, and the day must be at once determined. 
 This is Friday, the 22d. In three days, at far- 
 thest, Washington will have returned from Hart- 
 ford. And he will return by West Point to 
 inspect the works : I know him. To that he 
 will give a day, no more ; it needs no more ; 
 he is no spendthrift of time. In five days from 
 this the coast will be clear. Let Sir Henry 
 move on Tuesday evening. The instant news 
 of your approach reaches the garrison, I will — 
 in so far as I can without causing suspicion — 
 weaken' the main points. Under pretence of en- 
 countering you, I will send out corps, so sepa- 
 rated that they cannot at once aid one the other. 
 They will be stationed in the gorges westward. 
 Keep your main body closer to the river. This 
 I 've already told you : I repeat it ; it is important. 
 
 [A cannon is heard.'] 
 
68 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II 
 
 ANDKE, alarmed. 
 
 What 's that ? (Another shot.') We are betrayed. 
 
 Enter Smith. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Smith, what is that firing? 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 At the " Vulture," from the shore. 
 
 ANDR^. 
 
 But can they reach her ? ( Going to the win- 
 dotv ; cannon-shots continue.') Ha! that they can. 
 She looks as though she were on fire. There, 
 she is moving. 
 
 SMITH, aside to Arnold, seeing Andre's uniform. 
 
 What ! is he a British officer ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Oh, no ! A fop of a fellow, a New York 
 cockney, who borrowed a uniform to look big in. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 He '11 feel small enough if he is cauo;ht in it. 
 
 ANDKE. 
 
 Why, the " Vulture " is dropping down the 
 river! I shall not be able to set back to her. 
 
Scene IV.] ARNOLD AND ANDEA 69 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 She '11 not have to go far to get out of 
 reach of those guns. It 's only Colonel Living- 
 ston keeping his hand in. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 And even if the sloop had not budged, the 
 boatmen will not row out to her again. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 But I must be put on board. I demand that. 
 General Arnold, I have a right to demand so 
 much. 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 Young gentleman, if you are a good swimmer, 
 and a good diver to boot, to dodge the bullets 
 that might happen to be sent after you, you 
 may board the sloop. 
 
 [Arnold takes Smith on one stdeJ] 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 To be at the mercy of these two I This is no 
 business for a gentleman. I 've been over-zealous. 
 So much for playing spy. Spy ! Does a spy wear 
 this coat ? No, no ! it 's not so bad as that. 
 
70 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act II. 
 
 ^Arnold and Smith 7'eiurn.] 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Mr. Anderson, my friend Smith promises to 
 get you on board, if he can. If not, he will 
 escort you safely beyond our outposts. I '11 give 
 you a passport that will be full protection. 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 I must be content. 
 
 ARNOLD, to Andre. 
 
 He 's bound to me. He '11 do the best he can. 
 The hazard 's small. The passport will carry you 
 tlirough to your own lines. People are passing 
 to and fro every day. Those papers, — in case of 
 accident, destroy them ; then we are both safe. 
 They are the only evidence against us. Not to 
 a soul on our side is the object of this meeting 
 known. For greater secrecy, hide them in your 
 boots. — Mr. Smith, I must return up the river. 
 In your charge I leave Mr. Anderson. — Give 
 my best regards to Colonel Robinson, Mr. An- 
 derson. Tell him the affair shall be settled to 
 suit him. Farewell. (^Coming hack.') Mr. An- 
 
Scene IV.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 71 
 
 derson, you had better change that borrowed red 
 coat for a plain one. 
 
 \_Exeunt, Jirst Arnold on one side, then Smith on the other. 
 ANDRE, alone, loohing first after Arnold, then after Smith. 
 
 Now that they 're gone, I draw a better breath. 
 Their presence stifled me. I know not why, 
 But while they were beside me, it did seem 
 As they were plotters 'gainst my life. Since 
 
 Arnold 
 Grasped in the dark upon the shore my arm, 
 I have not been myself. That touch was ven- 
 
 omed : 
 It shrivelled up my nerves. I am unmanned ; 
 I have the conscience of a quaking culj)rit ; 
 My fancies are as pale as a sick mother's. 
 Poh ! Poll ! A soldier must not let imagination 
 Unheart him. I have work to do, great work. 
 He 's right : it can't be done without these war- 
 rants. 
 
 [He taJces out the papers, and seats himself at the table.] 
 
 [The curtain drops.] 
 
72 ARNOLD AND ANDR£. [Act IH. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Half a mile above Tarrytown, hy the road-side among 
 trees, about ten d'cloch in the morning of September 
 2Sd. 
 Paulding, Williams, and Van Wart, lying on the ground. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Did you say, Isaac, that the cow-boys have 
 been seen this week above Pine Bridge ? 
 
 VAN WART. 
 
 Aye, and felt too ; for they carried off a cow 
 from a Dutch woman three miles beyond the 
 bridge. 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 ^ The saucy varlets. Why, that 's four or five 
 miles higher up than North Castle, Colonel Jam- 
 ie son's station. Where was he with his drao-oons ? 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Fast asleep. The Colonel is too slow for the 
 
Scene I.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 73 
 
 work that 's wanted in these parts. I warrant 
 
 you, if the marauding rascals come so near to 
 
 Captain Boyd, they '11 catch a Tartar instead of 
 a cow. 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 The skinners, too, have been busy above 
 White Plains. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 The pirates ! They are worse than the cow- 
 boys. They belong to neither side, and pillage 
 both. David, what 's o'clock, think you ? past 
 nine ? 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 Nearer to ten than nine, I should say, by the 
 sun. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 This lying down in the daytime is hard both 
 for bones and brains. 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 It 's the worst work I ever tried ; but should 
 a brace of cattle come along with their noses to 
 the south, it will pay. 
 
74 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act III. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 That 's a wise law, that gives cattle for the 
 enemy to the captors. But this waiting on 
 chance is sorry work after all for two-fisted 
 men. 
 
 VAN WART. 
 
 There comes somebody on liorseback, that looks 
 like a gentleman. He has boots on. If you don't 
 know him, Mr. Paulding, you had better make 
 him stop. 
 
 Enter Major Andre on horseback. 
 
 PAULDING, icho has risen, presents his Jirehck. 
 
 Stand. Where are you going ? 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 I hope, my friends, you are of our party. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Which party ? 
 
 ANDR^. 
 
 The lower party. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 That 's ours. 
 
Scene L] ARNOLD AND ANDRlS. 75 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 Then we are friends. I am a British officer 
 out on particular business. Let me pass, and 
 take this. (^Offering his watch.) 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Keep your watch, sir ; you must dismount. 
 
 ANDRt:. 
 
 Why, what good will it do you to stop me. 
 It may do you harm ; for, see here, I have a 
 pass from General Arnold. QCrives the passport to 
 Paulding, and then dismounts.) If you detain 
 me, you may get yourselves into trouble. I 'm 
 on my way to Dobbs's Ferry, on the General's 
 business. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 You seem to be a gentleman, sir ; and we 
 mean you no harm. But there are bad people 
 about, and in these times it 's hard to tell friend 
 from foe. You must submit to be searched. 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 Step this way, sir, and take off your clothes. 
 
76 ARNOLD AND ANDR:^. [Act HI. 
 
 If you are on an honest errand, no harm will 
 come to you. 
 
 \^Willianis and Van Wari withdraw with Andre jmt outside the 
 stage.] 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 A British officer, in disguise, with a passport 
 from General Arnold. That 's odd. And how- 
 anxious he seems. "When I told him to dismount, 
 he turned pale. There 's something crooked, 
 which we may be the means of straightening. 
 (^Reenter Van Wart,') Do you find any papers ? 
 
 VAN WART 
 
 Nothing ; and we 've searched him thoroughly. 
 
 PAULDING, going to the side. ~ 
 
 Williams, look into his boots. 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 There 's nothing in this one. ^Showing it, and 
 turning it upside down.') — What 's that in your 
 stocking ? Off with it. — Here are papers. 
 Paulding, you can read. 
 
 [ Gives Paulding th e papers.'] 
 
Scene I.] ARNOLD AND ANDRJS, 77 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 What 's this ? Artillery orders at West Point. 
 And here 's one marked, "■ Estimate of the 
 force at West Point and its dependencies." 
 WilUams, search the other foot. If he is not a 
 spy, I don't know how to read. 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 Here are three more. 
 
 \^Give$ them to Paulding.'] 
 
 PAULDING, reading. 
 
 " Report of a Council of War on the Cam- 
 paign." "Description of the w^orks at West 
 Point." There's treason, somewhere, — nothing 
 less. Some black plot. What, a providence that 
 we were at this very spot at this very hour ! 
 Kpep your eye on him, Isaac. He 's a prize. 
 We must take him right off to North Castle. 
 That 's the nearest station. 
 
 [Andre, who has re-dressed, advances. Paulding and the other 
 two talk low apart.] 
 
 ANDKE, aside. 
 
 Sooner or later a curse doth ever follow false- 
 
78 A UN OLD AND ANDRE. [Act III. 
 
 hood. How quick it falls on me. Till now my 
 life was true. This is my first lie, and I am 
 caught in it, — caught acting a monstrous false- 
 hood. Oh, what a fool I 've been ! , They 
 should have chosen some sharper, harder instru- 
 ment for such a work. — I blame no one but 
 myself. • — What will be my fate ? — I dare not 
 think of it. 
 
 [^Rests his head againsl a tree.'] 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 I tell you, this is a great day's work. Few of 
 the generals have done a better. 
 
 Think you so ? 
 
 WFLLIAMS. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Aye. Had that man got to New York with 
 those papers, in a week the English would have 
 had West Point. And then, good bye to our 
 cause. 
 
 VAN WART. 
 
 Indeed ! '' 
 
Scene 1] ARNOLD AND ANDR^. 79 
 
 rAULDING. 
 
 Mark me : when this repubUc shall have grown 
 great, — which it will do faster than ever yet a 
 nation on the earth, — and shall be as strong as 
 old England herself 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 As strong as England I 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Aye, it will take but two or three genera- 
 tions for that; — for this day's doings, tens of 
 milUons will know the napies of us three, and 
 speak them with thanks, and will hand them 
 down to be blessed by their children's children, to 
 the twentieth generation ; and on this very spot 
 where we stand will gather a great crowd, — 
 which our children may hve to see, — and raise 
 a monument to our memory. 
 
 VAN WART. 
 
 What ! a monument ! 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Aye. And thereon, in large, deep letters, your 
 name, Isaac, will be cut. Now to our prisoner. 
 
80 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act III. 
 
 See how he 's troubled. I should n't wonder if 
 he turns out to be a British general. 
 
 WILLIAMS, to Andre. 
 
 Now, what will you give us to let you go ? 
 
 ANDRlS. 
 
 Anything you name. 
 
 WILLIAMS. 
 
 Will you give your horse, saddle, bridle, watch, 
 and one hundred guineas ? 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 And a hundred apiece to each of you besides, 
 and as much more in dry goods, and have them 
 delivered at this very spot, or anywhere that you 
 shall name. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Not for ten thousand guineas would we let you 
 go. Here is some dark plot against 'the American 
 cause, and you, Mr. Anderson, as your passport 
 calls you, are an agent in it. Had you this pass- 
 port directly from General Arnold's hand ? 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 Ask me no questions. 
 
Scene II.] ARNOLD AND ANDR]^. 81 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 When did you see General Arnold? 
 
 ANDRE. 
 
 Bring m-e to one of your commanders. To 
 him I will reveal all. 
 
 PAULDING. 
 
 Forward, then, to North Castle. ^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Arnold's Head-quarters, opposite West Point, September 
 25th. Bre^kfast-tahle set for ten or eleven persons. 
 Arnold, Mrs. Arnold, Major Varick, Arnold's aide-de-camp. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Husband, he sent direct word that with his 
 suite he would be here to breakfast ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Yes ; and the Commander-in-Chief is an early 
 
 riser. You '11 hear their tramp presently. Had 
 
 he named the hour, we should be sure of him : 
 
 he is the most punctual man in his camp. Ah ! 
 
 6 
 
82 ARNOLD AND ANDRJ^. [Act III. 
 
 here he is. (Enter Colonel Hamilton and Major 
 3IcIIenry,^ Welcome, gentlemen. Where 's the 
 General ? _^ "" 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 He turned off towards the river, to inspect the 
 works before dismountino;. He sends us to re- 
 quest that you will not wait breakfast for him. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold, this is Colonel Alexander Hamil- 
 ton, aide-de-camp to General Washington ; Major 
 McHenry, aide-de-camp to the Marquis Lafayette. 
 The ordei's of the Commander-in-Chief, whatever 
 they may be, must be obeyed; so, we will go 
 to breakfast. 'Come, gentlemen. (All sit at the 
 table.') This ride to Hartford has been a pleas- 
 ant holiday to you. How did you like our 
 French allies? 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 We liked them much. But what we like 
 even better than them is the effect the inter- 
 view with Count Rochambeau has had on Gen- 
 eral Washington. We all observe that he is less 
 
Scene H.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 83 
 
 silent and more cheerful since we left Hartford 
 than on the journey thither. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 What is the amount of the land-force the 
 Count has brought over ? 
 
 McHENRY. 
 
 Between sk and seven thousand choice troops. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Any artillery? 
 
 McHENRY. 
 
 A larger train than belongs to such a force ; 
 both heavy and light guns. 
 
 [Enter an Attendant, who gives Arnold a letter, and retires-l 
 ARNOLD, who with difficulty conceals his emotion while reading the letter. 
 
 I am called, gentlemen, across the river to 
 West Point. Say to General Washington that I 
 have been suddenly summoned on business. [Exit. 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 The General, I fear, has had bad news. That 
 letter seemed to disturb him. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 I thought so too. 
 
84 ARNOLD AND ANDRJS. [Act III. 
 
 \Enter an Attendant and whispers to Mrs. Arnold, who hastily 
 quits the room, followed by the Attendant.'] 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 Our host and hostess being both called away, 
 let us, gentlemen, seek the party on horseback. 
 
 VARICK. 
 
 With all my heart. It is some time since I 
 saw the Commander-in-Chief. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE m. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold's chamber; a cradle near the bed. 
 
 Arnold, then Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 What is it ? Thou 'rt pale ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 We must part on the instant, — perhaps for- 
 ever. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Part ! Oh, Heaven ! what mean'st thou ? 
 
Scene III.] ARNOLD AND ANDRE. 85 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 I 've played a bold game and lost. My life is 
 forfeit. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Thy life ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Unless I reach the enemy's Hnes, I 'm lost. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 The enemy ! Oh, my fears ! Thon art lost 
 indeed. Why didst thou not confide in me, 
 thy wife ? Thou didst repulse me. I never 
 had betrayed thee, — I might have saved thee. 
 And my boy ! ( Throws herself on her knees he- 
 fore the cradle.') Oh, my poor child ! 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 I must be gone. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Tell me all. I yet may save thee. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Too late, too late. Andre's taken. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Andr^ I 
 
86 ARNOLD AND ANDR:^. [Act III. 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! My very life-blood ebbs 
 with every minute lost. 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 I '11 go with thee. And our boy. Wilt thou 
 desert us ? 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Wilt thou see me die ? 
 
 MRS. ARNOLD. 
 
 Fly ! fly ! Away ! away ! 
 
 [^Arnold kisses the child and then embraces her. She swoons in 
 his ai^ms.'] 
 
 ARNOLD. 
 
 Great Heaven ! she faints. And I must leave 
 her thus ! (^Lays her on the bed.') Wife ! Wife ! 
 Oh, wTetch that I am ! lEushes out. 
 
Scene IV.] ARNOLD AND ANDRIIS, 87 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Head-quarters of General Washington, at Tappan, Sep- 
 tember SOth. Street in the village. 
 
 Enter Colonel Hamilton, aide-de-camp to Washington, and Major 
 Varick, aid to Arnold. 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 He dies to-morrow. 
 
 VARICK. 
 
 Has the Commander-in-Chief signed the sen- 
 tence ? 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 Not yet. He vi^ill sign it to-day. 'T is the 
 hardest duty he ever had to do. 
 
 VARICK. 
 
 "What a fate for a young, generous gentleman ! 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 As bitter to him, poor fellow, as his capture 
 was to us providentially merciful. A full, fair 
 trial he has had by a jury, than which one 
 more enlightened and honorable never gave a 
 
88 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act III. 
 
 verdict. Six Major- Generals, — Greene, Presi- 
 dent, and with him, Stirhng, St. Clair, Lafay- 
 ette, Howe, Steuben ; and eight Brigadiers, — 
 Parsons, Clinton, Knox, Glover, Patterson, Hand, 
 Huntington, Stark. To justice never was given 
 by a tribunal a stronger bond than that sealed 
 by the character of these fourteen officers. 
 
 VARICK. 
 
 Was there no dissentient voice ? 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 Finally, none. Two or three members of the 
 board, prompted by humanity, started some tech- 
 nical objections, but could not sustain them. 
 Andre bears his doom like a soldier, and, by his 
 gentleness and dignity, wins all who approach 
 him. 
 
 VARICK. 
 
 In battle how light a thing it is to give or 
 take death. But in calm blood, by deliberate 
 judgment to cut off the life of a fellow-being, — 
 the brain trembles over its work. The tliought 
 of Andre must light a hell in Arnold's breast. 
 
Scene IV.] ARNOLD AND ANDRJE. 89 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 In his breast there is not glow enough to 
 kindle the fires of conscience. His nature is 
 ruthless and shameless. Think of his writing a 
 defiant, threatening letter to the Commander-in- 
 Chief. 
 
 Enter Sergeant Briggs, accompanied by another sergeant. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Can you tell me, Colonel Hamilton, has Gen- 
 eral Washington signed the sentence? 
 
 HAMILTON 
 
 Not yet. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 But he will sign it ? 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 'Tis said he will. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 I knew he would. 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 How did you know it? 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Because he ought to sign it; and he never yet 
 
90 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act III. 
 
 failed, and never will fail, to do what lie ought 
 to do. 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 Some think he ought not to sign it. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Tories and traitors and love-sick girls. 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 Sergeant, you seem much moved. 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Moved ! I have n't slept for a week for dream- 
 ing. The instant I close my eyes, I see the 
 cursed red-coats pouring up the heights, — our 
 men scattered and flying, shot down like rab- 
 bits, — officers bewildered, — all dismayed, all be- 
 trayed. They 've scaled Fort Putnam ! There ! 
 the royal ensign waves above it ! And that 
 wakes me ; and I cry for joy to find I 've 
 been dreaming. I shall do nothing but dream 
 o' nights while Andre lives. But there 's one 
 condition on which I 'd spare his life. 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 What's that? 
 
Scene IV.] ARNOLD AND ANDR:^. 91 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Their giving us Arnold in his place. Oh, for 
 that, I 'd hug Andre with my one arm. I have 
 but the one ; but look you. Colonel, I '11 lay it on 
 a block, and you may hew it off inch by inch to 
 the shoulder, if thereby we can clutch that — 
 what shall I say — traitor ! There have been 
 traitors before ; but Arnold is something diaboli- 
 cally new. 
 
 VARICK. 
 
 Now that his villany is baffled, what have we 
 to gain by taking the life of poor Andre ? 
 
 BRIGGS. 
 
 Poor Andr^, — what to gain ? I knew a man, 
 a brave one. I saw him fight at Princeton, — a 
 young, strong man and true. He left a wife and 
 babe at home in Monmouth. The day before 
 yesterday came a letter telling him his wife was 
 ill unto death. No mother, no sister, no brother, 
 near her. The poor man was beside himself with 
 grief. In that state he deserted. He was taken ; 
 and yesterday, within twelve hours of his capture, 
 
92 ARNOLD AND ANDR£. [Act III. 
 
 he was shot ; and it was right that he was, — it 
 was right. And a British officer, by the British 
 Commander-in-Chief sent with most mahgnant 
 purpose, comes within our hnes under a false 
 name, under a false character, in disguise, at 
 midnight, to plot with the worst enemy our cause 
 could have, — to plot the ruin of that cause by 
 one great perfidious blow, — goes away in the 
 dark, hicUng in his boots the plans and papers to 
 make that blow unfailing; this man, who came 
 upon us stealthily, like a thief in the night, and 
 went out like a thief in the night, carrying with 
 him a key to our very citadel of safety, — a man, 
 who, by means gotten through his own double, 
 treble falsehood and the deep treason of his black 
 accomplice, would, within a week, have compassed 
 the stronghold of our territory, shattered our army, 
 struck despair to the whole country's heart, per- 
 haps, aye, quite possibly, made captive "Washing- 
 ton himself, — this man, — this man is poor Andre ! 
 Hanging 's too good for him. 
 
 [Exit, followed by his companion, tvho makes an energetic ges- 
 ture of sympathy and approval. 
 
Scene V.] ARNOLD AND ANDR^, 93 
 
 VARICK. 
 
 Colonel, there 's marrow in that man's bones. 
 
 HAMILTON. 
 
 Aye, Major; that's the stuff that carried us 
 into this war, and will carry us through it. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A Hall 
 
 At the farther end General Washington, seated at a table, 'with his 
 face to the audience, takes a j^en. The fourteen Generals who 
 formed the Board of Inquiry that sat on Andre are standing about 
 the table on his right and left, looking at him sign the sentence, 
 which he does. He then rises, gives the paper to General Greene, 
 President of the Board, bows to the Generals and retires, they all 
 bowing deferentially. 
 
 GREENE. 
 
 His heaving breast made the weak pen to tremble, 
 Until he ruled it with his mighty will. 
 
 LAFAYETTE. 
 
 Tears are rare visitors to those calm eyes ; 
 
94 ARNOLD AND ANDRE. [Act III. 
 
 And when they come, they bnng a solemn mes- 
 sage 
 
 From the great heart that could no longer quench 
 them. 
 
 KNOX. 
 
 But once before have I beheld him thus. 
 
 STEUBEN. 
 
 And yet, at last, in what a clear firm hand 
 He wrote the one irrevocable word. 
 His loved and dreaded name. 
 
 GREENE. 
 
 The steady hand 
 Belongs to war, to peace the moistened eye. 
 War dislocates the man, his sterner half 
 Ruling the gentler with the soldier's law, 
 Which is sharp as his sword, quick as his flint. 
 
 KNOX. 
 
 The law of war is now our law of life. 
 Its rough necessities so sway the hour 
 That in a case like this mercy were suicide. 
 
 LAFAYETTE. 
 
 As if by miracle we have escaped 
 
Scene V.] ARNOLD AND ANDR:^. 95 
 
 The ruin of the noblest, grandest cause 
 That e'er by power of truth and manliness 
 Was launched upon the storms of rageful war. 
 
 GREENE. 
 
 By providential blessing we 've escaped ; 
 But while from danger's loosened grip our hearts 
 Still shudder, round beneath us baffled Death 
 From rock to rock, in sight, springs black and 
 
 bellowing, 
 Where the loud foam of open enmity 
 Curls o'er the silent reefs of treason deep ; 
 So that, to ward the costliest wreck e'er strewn 
 Upon the shores of time, we still must bind 
 In one great cable all our life's best threads. 
 And on our haughty foe hurl death for death. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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