28 Sentenced

He pushed open the door of the hut and entering I stood before my kinsman, Major Gilbert Northcote. I saw the look of surprise upon his face, usually so self-contained, for he could not fail to recognise me despite the mud which incased me like a coat of armour.

“A surprise, but not a pleasant one, Cousin Philip,” he said.

“Oh, I can stand it if you can,” I replied, and then. I was sorry I had made such a reply, for I felt that it was flippant.

“I am not so sure of that,” he replied ambiguously.

Since it was my kinsman who was my captor I decided to make myself at home, and looking around saw a box upon which I took my seat. Then I examined the place with interest. As I had guessed at first sight from the outside, it was the hut of a hunter or fisherman, though occupied now by altogether different people, containing only a few articles of furniture, and those of the rudest description. Some tanned skins, jerked meat, and dried vegetables hung on the walls. In the corner was a camp bed, evidently brought from one of the ships for the use of Major Northcote. The major himself was sitting on a camp stool, and I noticed how well he looked. He seemed to have been dwelling in the sunlight of prosperity. His uniform, as usual, was fine and neat, and his expression was at first that of satisfaction and triumph, though it became gloomy as he looked at me.

“I am sorry that you came, Cousin Philip,” he said again.

“I observe that you do not seem glad to see me,” I replied, and again I felt that I had spoken flippantly.

“There has been bad feeling between us, though I was willing to have it otherwise,” he said, “and I would rather this duty had fallen to some one else.”

What he said seemed ambiguous and I passed it over, but I added, to see what he would have to say:

“Your friends have a formidable force out there at the entrance to the lake.”

His face cleared.

“Yes,” he said, “it is quite sufficient, more than sufficient, for the purpose. In a few days, in a week or two at most, New Orleans and all this Southwestern country will be ours. To what do your few thousands of raw militia amount?—to nothing. Was I not at Washington? Did I not see them run away there? They will do the same here! And even if they do not, what does it matter to the gathered might of Britain! Wellington’s best troops, the soldiers who beat Napoleon’s in Spain and France and marched into Paris, are here, and his best generals are coming too. Do you think that the men who overcame odds at Talavera and Salamanca and Vitoria and Toulouse are going to pause for your Louisianians and Kentuckians and Tennesseeans, half-starved backwoodsmen in their hunting shirts?”

His eyes were flashing, and I could see the blood leaping in his face. These were the things that were dear to his heart, the triumphs in which he gloried.

“Look at Washington,” he continued. “Your army fled there, and it would have been the same if it had not fled. And do not forget that I had my share of the triumph, nor was it a small share. It was I who led the army to Washington. It was I who made the swift march upon it possible, for I knew the country. I had studied and mapped it, and I led the army on. I urged the march upon our commanders, and then, when we reached your Capitol, I was one of the first to set the torch to it. I have paid any debts that I may have owed in Washington for insults. But we have not finished yet. Britain has conquered Bonaparte, and now that all her fleets and armies are free she will smash up your league of petty republics and make them her colonies and dependencies again, as they should never have ceased to be.”

“Rather a large undertaking,” I said.

“Not too large.”

“You seem to forget that you are an American yourself.”

“Never an American,” he replied with energy. “I was born in this country when it was English; English I am, and English I will remain. Have I not paid the price? Have I not clung to my loyalty to my king through everything? I was one of those Loyalist exiles whom they expelled from New York at the close of the war and whose property they confiscated. The mob followed us as we went to the ships and hooted at us and sang their traitorous Yankee songs and stoned us. Those were things to remember, when all we had was taken from us and we were forced to go into the Canada wilderness and snows and build new homes there.”

I could see that he was growing excited at the memory of old wrongs cherished through all these years. I had never before seen him show so much feeling, and it seemed that all the passion he had repressed so long was bursting out at once.

“But all this happened before I was born,” I protested.

“That does not alter the fact that it happened, nor does it alter the fact either that I am living to see time pay its debts. The exiles, the old Loyalists, will come back to their own.”

“Never,” I replied; “neither you nor I will ever see that.”

“You will not,” he said.

There was a change in his tone and manner, and that change, as well as his words, caused me to look at him with a new interest.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You are soldier enough to know the fate of taken spies,” he replied.

His eye shifted away, and I saw that it was unwilling to meet mine.

“But I am no spy!”

“Why, then, are you in disguise?”

“Disguise?”

“Look at your clothes.”

I wore an old suit of brown homespun which I had borrowed from a Tennesseean almost as large as myself. I had but one uniform, and as the ladies of New Orleans were handsome I did not wish to spoil it on an expedition through the mud like this.

“Yes, your clothes!” he repeated. “Why were you not in uniform? Why have you dressed in such a manner? Why have you come to such a place if not as a spy? You have been taken within our lines.”

I was a scout, not a spy, and had not thought of playing such a part.

“I did not know I was within your lines,” I replied, “and if lack of uniform is proof that I am a spy, then half of our army are spies.”

I saw his face harden. He seemed to have forgotten all the regard he professed once to have for me.

“I said I was sorry that this duty had fallen upon me,” he said.

“Surely you can not mean such a thing,” I exclaimed, more in amazement than alarm just then.

“In the rebellion your Washington did not spare Andre because he was young and many people liked him.”

“But at least you will give me a trial and hear what I have to say,” I protested. “You professed once to like me.”

“That was in a different time, and the laws of war are plain,” he said. “You were caught in citizen’s dress within our lines.”

Now I understood what the sergeant had meant when he spoke of my frankness, but we Western men were so much accustomed to wearing our every-day dress on campaigns that I had thought nothing of a matter which now seemed so serious.

“It is best to tell you the truth and let you prepare yourself,” he said abruptly. “You will be shot at ten o’clock in the morning. That is better than hanging. This room will be your prison to-night. I give you my own quarters. You can not escape, for a dozen soldiers will be on guard outside.”

He walked out quickly and slammed the door behind him, leaving me overwhelmed by confused thoughts and yet scarce realizing my position. I could not believe that my career, all my hopes and ambitions were about to come to a sudden end in a black swamp before a file of soldiers, and that too, if not at the hand, at the order of my own kinsman. The thing was too monstrous. I could not believe that he had changed so much, for he seemed sincere once when he offered me what he called a future.

Presently I heard a steady tramp, tramp on the strip of hard earth before the door. I looked through a crack and saw a soldier, musket on shoulder, walking back and forth; I went to the window, another walked there, and I doubted not that there were more, as the major had said. I had no arms, as my captors had taken them from me when they seized me, and I could see no chance of escape.

I sat down on the box and remained motionless a long time. I confess that I was dazed by the blow delivered so suddenly and with such little mercy. At first I had the feeling that is in every one who is young and full of strength, that he can not die, at least not for scores of years. Death might strike others, but it would pass me by. Even now, after I realized that the major was in earnest, it was hard for me to believe that the threat was real. I was as strong as ever, and life was as sweet. Ten o’clock in the morning! Eighteen, twenty hours at the most! My mind could not take it in, for it was contrary to Nature and would not be permitted. Something would interfere.

I had thought of death before, but only of a death on the battlefield. Even that thought had been vague, merely one of the possibilities, not a probability, to be reckoned with and to prepare for. That, too, was a death not without honour; this to which I was doomed was like the death they inflicted on a criminal, a murderer. I was no spy. All my feelings revolted at the trade. Yet I was not only to be put to death as a spy, but my people, my best friends, my commander, perhaps Marian, would think that I was a spy and died as such.

I sprang up from my stool and walked about in an endeavour to suppress weakness. I looked through the little window, and again caught glimpses of red-coated soldiers. One stopped near the window and I could see his face. It was red and jolly, and spoke of strong, healthy life. Yet that man was twice as old as I. What right had he to live on while I had to die?

I sat down on the stool again. I could still hear, through the thin walls, the regular tramp of the sentinels. Tap-tap, tap-tap went their feet on the earth. Presently the sound of their footsteps ceased and some one fumbled at the door. It was only a soldier with food and drink for me. He put them on my box, and, giving me a sympathetic look, went out.

I turned to the food and was very much surprised to find that I had a good appetite. I ate heartily, and felt better for a while, but not long. The tread of the sentinels annoyed me. Like the ticking of a clock it seemed to hasten the hours away. The night had come, and already the time had shortened to sixteen, fifteen, fourteen hours, maybe less. What was a little while like that? It would soon be the tenth hour, and then the eighth and the sixth and then the end. Yet, telling about it now at this safe distance of time, I could not even yet believe in my soul that I was going to die, and I suppose that youth, health, and strength together gave me this anchor.

I heard somebody laughing outside. In anger I went to the little window and saw two soldiers talking. It was some joke that they were telling to each other and enjoying, ignorant or careless of the man condemned to death who heard. I wondered at the heartlessness of some human natures. In a pettish kind of wrath I took up the tin cup that held my drinking water and threw it through the window at the men. It struck clanging on the ground, and they went away.

I felt a little glow of triumph at my victory and returned to my box, where I sat for some time. I wanted sleep, and I believe that I could have slept had it not been for the dreary tread of the sentinels. Tap-tap, tap-tap it went, and so it would go on all night I supposed.

The night advanced and I could no longer see anything outside, but I could hear voices and the clank of metal against metal as the men handled their guns. These were the old familiar sounds of my camp life, and I grew incredulous again about the sudden coming of death. I could not reason it out.

The darkness diminished by and by. A few beams of pale light came in at the little window and fell on the floor in front of me. They made round patches there like silver dollars. The moon was rising and the light increased. I looked out again and could see men now as well as hear them, but I did not know what they were about.

I tried at last to go to sleep, and lay down on the floor and shut my eyes. But that only made the tread of the sentinels more distinct. I began to count in order to soothe my brain and put it into a state that would invite sleep. I laughed, still in an unconvinced way, that on the last night of my life I should resort to this old childish trick to banish wakefulness. One, two, three, four I counted and up to a hundred; then back one, two, three, four again. One, two, three, four rang the footsteps of the nearest sentinel as I counted. Unconsciously I began to count the footsteps which were to be the measure of my life. Up to one hundred I went, but I did not turn and go back again. I went on up, reached two hundred, and went on, calling each figure as the sentinel’s foot struck the. earth.

Still counting, my eyelids drooped and the room grew darker. The hard floor seemed softer and the moonbeams multiplied upon it. The tread of the sentinels became less distinct. Perhaps, after all, they were going to stop. I was too languid to wonder about it long. I tried to count on, but I lost the number. Then I heard the tread no more, and, ceasing to hear, I went to sleep, with the moonbeams falling upon me.

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