23 A Night of Defeat
As the darkness came out of the east and the silence of desolation spread over the doomed city I felt that it was time for me to go. The last straggler was disappearing, a wagon loaded with household goods had just lumbered past me and gone out of sight around a corner; the night was settling down, thick and close, after a hot, burning day. There was nothing that one could do in Washington, and my sole idea then was to go to Georgetown and help in the escape and protection of Marian. I stood in Pennsylvania Avenue, where I had made my last effort to rally some uniformed fugitives. Near me loomed the Capitol, its white walls shining through the advancing dusk. I turned to go, and heard a rattle and a shout and the tread of many feet. Before me blazed the red coats of an English regiment, advancing up the avenue, in but half order, their general, Ross, and the admiral, Cockburn, who commanded the blockading fleet, at their head. Theirs was not the precise, steady walk of the drill ground, of troops under strict discipline, but they came on in irregular lines, shouting and firing stray shots at the silent and unoffending walls of houses. I saw at once that these men, wild and drunk with triumph, were in truth the men of whom Wellington wrote, and less kin to the Puritans of Cromwell than ever. I was about to turn again for retreat another way, when my eye was caught by the figure of an officer riding just behind the British general—a tall man, straight-shouldered, and riding stiffly. It was my kinsman, Major Northcote, in a brilliant uniform, all his seeming indifference gone, his face red with the flush of victory and gratified malice, as on this, the most triumphant day of his life, he rode toward the Capitol of the country which had injured him and which, I knew now, he hated with as much vindictive passion as the human breast is capable of holding. He fascinated me for the moment as Turnus in the Æneid or the Devil in Paradise Lost fascinates the reader. The light of the setting sun, reddest as it goes, blazed upon his face, and brought forth like Greek chiselling every strong and sharpened feature—the massive head, the projecting chin, the tight-shut lips, the high cheek bones, the seamed forehead, the thick gray hair above, the whole handsome as ever, but now harsh and repellent. It was only for the moment that I looked, and then I turned again to flee down a side street. Some of the soldiers saw me and shouted to their comrades to shoot, setting the example by firing point-blank at my vanishing form, and the others followed quickly with a volley. But the twilight had come and the soldiers were unsteady. I heard their bullets whistling around me, but none touched me, and I told Philip Ten Broeck that it was time to show himself a man of speed and sure foot, and so telling I took his advice and darted into the side street. It was well for me that I looked before me, for my eyes were saluted again by a line of red uniforms, and down the side street at a trot came a company of British grenadiers, shouting like their comrades in the avenue and firing at the houses, changing their aim when I came and sending their bullets at me. This way was closed, and I ran back into the avenue, to find the main body of the troops still nearer. Obeying instinct, I ran straight ahead at a great pace and directly toward the Capitol. I would have tried another side street, but I feared that I would dash into a British company, for they seemed to be approaching from almost every direction, and I ran on toward the great building, which rose white and massive in the misty twilight. More muskets were discharged at me, and the troops shouted in delight like hunters at a fox chase, but I had little fear of their bullets, which struck bushes and houses, but never my body.
I dashed around a little patch of shrubbery, took a few leaps, and was then at the Capitol. I believed that the troops had lost sight of me, and I would hide in the building until the darkest part of the night came, when I would escape to the country. I listened for a moment behind one of the pillars, and then entered the Capitol. Books and parchments were scattered upon the floors, but around me was utter silence, and the darkness of night had gathered already in the lone rooms and halls. On a table in one of the rooms a candle burned dimly. How it came to be lighted I know not, but it sputtered there and threw its flickering flame on the marble walls like one of the torches that some religions burn at the feet of the dead.
When I stepped heavily upon a stone floor the great building rumbled as the echo fled through hall and corridor, and the succeeding silence and desolation oppressed me. I went into the Senate chamber, where I had listened to the eloquence of Mr. Clay urging on the war, and walked down between the rows of deserted desks, some with rolls of papers lying upon them, and faced the Vice-President’s chair, sitting there an emblem of emptiness and abandonment. It was now more than twilight in the silent chamber, for within those walls the darkness had come, and it was only my accustomed eyes that enabled me to see; even then the walls and chairs and desks became shadowy, while the feeble rays of light that filtered through the windows made a pallid and ghostly hue where they fell. It was to me a dim chamber of the dead, and my brain was excited with the wild battle and flight of the day, the heat and dust, the shame and disgrace of the rout, and my presence alone there in that darkening room, from which the rightful occupants had fled. My heart was filled with varying emotions, shame, anger, excitement; my feet became light as air, and my brain swelled with strange ideas. I walked down the aisle and up to the Vice-President’s chair, in which I took my seat and faced the empty chairs of the senators.
It was a fine chair, a big chair, but I filled it, for I say again that my brain swelled with the excitement and battle of the day and held strange ideas. I looked down at the rows of silent desks and empty chairs, formless in the dark, and facing me like phantoms, and I trembled with indignation at those who had occupied them and had fled. I threw up my hand, and it struck a gavel on a little marble-topped table by my side. The Vice-President’s gavel! He, too, was gone. Then I would wield it for him!
I rapped once, twice, thrice, on the marble table for order. The resonant stone gave back the sound, and the dim chamber echoed with it. The rows of desks, looking more than ever in the thickening dusk like phantoms of men, faced me, ordered and silent.
I rose to my feet, the gavel still in my hand.
“Senators, pillars of your country,” I said, speaking clearly and distinctly, “for years we were threatened with war, and we had no recourse but war. Then you brought us war. Is it not so?”
No answer; no dissent.
“Then you brought us war, I say, and you did right; and, still holding the blessings of peace in view, you made no preparations for it. You gave us war, but you denied us an army or arms. Is it not true?”
No answer.
“Does the senator from Massachusetts deny it? He does not? Does the senator from South Carolina deny it? Does the senator from New York deny it? They do not. Then, be it resolved that we are sluggards and blockheads and unfit for our posts. Does any one oppose the resolution?”
No answer.
“Unanimously adopted. Let it be entered upon the record, Mr. Clerk, that the noble senators, by unanimous resolution, have decided that they are sluggards and blockheads and unfit for their posts. Moreover, gentlemen of the Senate, when the enemy appeared at your gates you organized no resistance, but fled in haste and disgrace from your capital, leaving it to its fate. Therefore, be it resolved, gentlemen of the Senate, that we are cowards, one and all, rank, scurvy cowards. Does any one oppose the resolution?”
No answer.
“Unanimously adopted. Enter it upon the record, Mr. Clerk, that the senators, by unanimous resolution, have decided that they are cowards.”
“Present arms! Take aim!”
The command, loud and sharp, came through the windows and recalled me to what was passing outside. I sprang from the chair and running to the window looked out, but I took only one brief look. The British companies were drawn up, muskets presented and aimed at the windows of the Capitol. Between their lines I could see Major Northcote on his horse, his face still flushed with all the joy of insolent triumph, and I knew that he more than any other had helped to guide and lead them there. He had used his time in Washington well for him—too well for us.
“Fire!”
Three hundred muskets were discharged at once, and the bullets smashed into the windows of the Capitol. The glass over my head was shattered into a thousand pieces, and poured down a rain of bits and splinters upon me. The bullets whistled through the air and pattered upon the opposite walls. I remained crouched where I was under the window, for I expected a second volley, and it came quickly. They were so close that the flame from the muskets seemed to flash in at the windows; the glass left by the first discharge rattled upon the floor, the smoke puffed in, and the whole building resounded and echoed with the volleys. The second discharge was succeeded by a stream of scattering shots, and then I heard them shouting and cursing at the doors and pouring into the building.
I had rushed into the Capitol through instinct, thinking that I might find a safe hiding place for a while in its deserted halls. In the fierce wars of the French Revolution and those that came after, nearly every capital city of Europe had been taken, and always they had been spared. The armies of the French republic and the Napoleonic empire had entered capital after capital on the continent of Europe, and they had harmed none; if Moscow was burned it was not Napoleon’s soldiers, but its own inhabitants, who burned it. The English and the Cossacks had been in Paris, and they had left Paris as it was; but when the English, from whom we are descended, entered our new little capital of Washington, just rising from bush and marsh, they raged with the mad lust that savages have for destruction.
As I sprang into one of the halls I saw the soldiers rushing into the building, some with lighted torches in their hands and others firing their muskets at the ceiling, the walls, chandeliers—anything that was large enough to be a target. All were wild with that insane fury which in Malay countries they call running amuck. All were yelling and cursing, and the building resounded with the din and confusion. Outside, their admiral, Cockburn, galloped up and down on a white mare, followed by her foal, a ferocious and ludicrous figure, bellowing to his men, egging them on, cursing the building and the nation that had built it. Truly the better England was dead, that night!
I ran down a hall and toward one of the back windows, hoping to escape through it, but some soldiers there blocked my way. The whole building swarmed with them—they were everywhere, shouting and firing pistols and muskets and setting torches to wooden furniture or whatever else inflammable they could find. Twice I saw Major Northcote, torch aloft, and shouting to the men to spare nothing. His seemed to be the most ruthless hand in all that ruthless band. Some of the halls and rooms were as light as day, for in places the interior of the building was already in a bright blaze; in others, which the flames had not yet reached, it was still dark. Columns of smoke poured down the halls, and the crackling of burning material mingled with the shouts and oaths of the troops. In the half light and the savage orgie no one noticed me, though more than once I brushed against the soldiers as I sought some way of escape. All seemed to be closed to me; the British were everywhere in the building, and outside they surrounded it. In the dusk of the dim halls, with the men thinking of nothing but to destroy the senseless wood and stone, I could escape notice, but outside, where so many torches flared and officers and soldiers looked on, they would be sure to mark me the moment I appeared. I felt for the first time a fear for my life, but I did not think of surrender, and had I thought of it, the idea would have been dismissed the next moment, since I could expect no quarter from these men.
The flames were roaring now and licked out at the windows, showers of sparks formed a luminous core for the columns of smoke which poured down the halls, and the snapping and popping were like the incessant crackling of pistol shots. The soldiers, their work well done, were rushing from the building, and I fled alone into a small room, where I paused like a wild beast chased from his lair by fire. I stood there by a window, half strangled by the smoke and scorched by the flying sparks. Behind me the flames roared, and across at the other wing they shot far up above the roof, casting a wide circuit of light around the burning building. I saw Major Northcote rush out, mount his horse, and ride up by the side of General Ross and Admiral Cockburn. The three sat together for a few moments, on their horses, looking at the flaming Capitol, then they gave commands to the soldiers, who turned about and marched down the avenue toward the White House.
I stood there yet a little longer watching them as they marched, until the crash of falling woodwork behind me said that it was time to go; then, letting myself down from the window, I dropped lightly to the earth outside. I shrank for a little against the wall of the building that I might be protected by its shadow, for there were still straggling soldiers about, drunk with success and more real liquor, firing their muskets and ready for murder.
A light wind was fanning the fire, which was increasing fast, and the walls grew hot. Cinders and half-burned pieces of wood were falling about me, and smoked or burned in the grass where they fell. I made a dash and crossed the circle of light unnoticed. Then, skulking in the darkness behind the houses and patches of bushes, I followed the general direction in which Ross and Cockburn had gone, turning occasionally to look back at the Capitol, now a mass of fire, yet with the white of the marble still gleaming here and there through the sheets of flame. All about it the earth was lighted up, but beyond lay the encircling rim of darkness, and above it the clouds of smoke mingled with other clouds which were drifting across the sky and formed a sombre canopy.
The English were hastening toward the President’s house, and in a few minutes I saw columns of flame shooting up from its roof and bursting from the windows, while soldiers carrying loot from the rooms rushed about showing their spoil. Then the torch was set to the Treasury, and at the same time the flames shot up from the navy yard, where the buildings and the incomplete ship on the dock were burning. All the time the shouting and cursing and indiscriminate firing went on. The soldiers shot at any one they met not wearing their uniform, and I saw a man named Lewis murdered in the street because he rebuked them for savagery. Higher and higher rose the flames from the doomed buildings, and drunken soldiers danced by their light, while others broke down the doors of houses and ransacked them for plunder.
I saw that my curiosity, the strange fascination that this wild scene, smacking of the bloody deeds of antiquity, had for me, had led me again into danger. I had approached too near the avenue, and hearing soldiers shouting in the cross streets behind me, I pushed open the door of a little negro cabin that stood on Pennsylvania Avenue and entered. I had now all my wits about me and knew what I was doing. There was no sign of life in the place, and it was too humble and mean for any one to search there for plunder. In one corner was a ladder leading to a little loft, the eaves of which sloped almost to the ceiling of the first floor. But I went lightly up the ladder, which I pulled into the loft after me, and then I squeezed myself down between the floor and the sloping roof, where I could look out through a little foot-square window, without any glass in it, and see what passed.
The night was far advanced, and yet the soldiers still rioted, their commanders apparently making no effort to restore order, but seeking rather to increase the wildness and savagery of the orgie. What an opportunity it would have been for a little army of our regular troops, which fought so bravely on other fields! All the British forces would have been routed in half an hour. But the thought brought only bitterness and shame, for that little army of regular troops was not there.
The flames from the burning buildings still lighted up Washington, and had it been a solidly built city, instead of a scattered village with a few detached and splendid structures, the whole of it would have been on fire before this. But even as it was the flames were increasing, and the clouds of smoke widened and darkened. There were other clouds, too, piling up in the sky, and a west wind was moaning. The cinders and ashes driven by the gusts were falling everywhere, and a fine gray dust sifted in at my little window and lodged upon my face.
Despite the gigantic bonfires of the burning buildings the night began to grow darker, the moan of the wind grew to a shriek, in the far southwest the clouds were piling up higher and higher—big, black, and threatening. The figures of the rioting soldiers grew shadowy, mere black lines against the fiery background.
My brain still throbbed with excitement, and my hands felt hot to the touch of each other, but I had no thought of rest. I could not have slept if I had tried, and I lay there with my face in the hole in the wall which served as a window and watched, as the sack of the city went on.
The advancing clouds dimmed the light of the fires, the shots became few, then ceased, the figures of the soldiers, save in the brightest light, melted from black lines into nothing, but the clouds of ashes grew thicker. The shouting died, and after it came a stillness broken only by the sweep of the flames and the rush of the wind. I looked up at the sky; not a star, not a strip of moonlight was there; the heavy gray clouds of smoke had gathered against the darker background of other clouds, and through both shone a red gleam from the fires below. The air was dense and heavy, and its closeness, the red-black of the sky, the feeling left by the wild scenes of the night, seemed to portend a convulsion of Nature—an earthquake, perhaps. My own senses were oppressed. Brain and heart felt as if they were clogged up.
The wind was whistling and shrieking around the little cabin. The air grew purer under its breath, and the flames of the burning city bent far over as it swept against them. In the southwest the clouds were of a jetty blackness, but suddenly they parted before a flash of lightning which cut the sky like a sword blade from the centre of the heavens to the earth.
The glare of the lightning upon my eyeballs was so strong that the red gleam in the air lingered after the flash was gone and the clouds had closed again over its track. The rumble of thunder came from the far southwest, and the wind shrieked its delight. The columns of fire bent farther over before its rush, and it seemed to me that ribbons of flame were torn off to float a little in the air and vanish. Toward the burning White House a few distorted figures were yet visible against the red background, but they, too, soon fled after the other soldiers who were seeking shelter.
The thunder began to rumble again and did not cease, but came nearer; the unbroken shriek of the wind was like the wailing of a thousand bagpipes, and drops of cold rain, driven like pistol balls, struck me in the face. The lightning began an incessant play in the heavens, flashing here and reappearing there with such rapidity and intensity that my eyes ached, though I did not cease to look. The raindrops thickened into a shower and then into a steady rush, swept on by the wind. The thunder now cracked and rolled incessantly, and after all the wild events of the day and evening, with the city burning around me, I was beholding at midnight of a hot August night a fierce storm of thunder and lightning, Nature seems to set her most terrible efforts against those of man. The rain poured as if the bottom of all the clouds had dropped out, and in the street a river of mud and water was running. The buildings burned bravely on for a while, but the flood was too great for the flames, and though they fought long, they began to smoulder at last and then went out, but left only blackened walls, all else being consumed. The city was then in darkness, save for the light of two or three camp fires which glimmered through the wet and blackness of the storm, and, exhausted with the exertion and excitement of the day and night, though thinking nothing of sleep, I slept.