3 A Glimpse of the General

But when I was in the street alone my mind returned to more serious things, and my spirits fell again. I regretted the quarrel with Spencer, for it was like to be renewed, though as sure as ever that I had been in the right.

Not wishing to return just then to my quarters, I strolled about in the cool of the evening. Ours always had been a lively town, but the turmoil of the war and the presence of the soldiery and the dignitaries had caused an exceeding great bustle lately. The arrival of night scarce served to diminish it. The number of street lanterns had been doubled, and the number of night watchmen, too, for that matter, as the coming of the soldiers caused much disorder, and there had been many broils. It was only the other day that I had heard some of our most respected burghers complaining of the bad effect the presence of the military had on public morals.

There was a crowd in the streets, and soldiers were straying about the Battery. Several of the military people showed signs of intoxication. I wondered at this laxity of discipline, for I had read much in the books about the art of war, and I found them all agreed that strict rules and an enforced obedience to them were the ingredients of success. Now when I was, confronted with the reality, I found the difference between it and what I had expected so great that I was puzzled to account for it. Nor did it comfort me to observe two or three of our own New York soldiers among the roisterers. I thought that at a time when our arms had experienced such ill success everywhere it would be mightily gratifying to the home people for our own colonial soldiers to set a good example.

Two soldiers approached me. One was in the uniform of the British grenadiers. The other wore the dress of a New York regiment. They had their arms about each other’s shoulders, and they were reeling along the path. I do not know whether they embraced because of drunken affection or to keep from falling down in a lump. As they drew near me they began to sing a ribald camp song.

I stepped back into the shadow of some trees, as I did not wish to be annoyed by drunken men. But my movement was too late. The gleam of my uniform caught the Englishman’s eye.

“’Ello!” he cried. “A horficer! Come, horficer, and ’ave a drink with us!”

“Yes,” said the American, “come and join ’Merican and English soldiers and gentlemen. Treat you as if you were the King himself. You’re an officer, but we’re not proud. We’ll drink with you, and let you pay the score!”

“Pass on!” I said in disgust. “I will report you to your regiments, and you will both be lucky if you escape the cat o’ nine tails.”

“What a horficer ’e is!” exclaimed the Englishman, pretending to be very much frightened, “and ’ow ’e used to set the French and the Haustrians and the Dons a-running! One look at ’im was enough for ’em. General, we gives you our best compliments, and ’opes you are in werry good ’ealth.”

Arm in arm they stood stiffly erect before me. Then they pulled off their caps and bowed so low that they were unable to return to the perpendicular, and fell over in a heap. I left them there, a struggling mixture of arms and legs and shoulders, from which confusion came a medley of English and American oaths.

I turned my course over toward the East River, and gazed at the twinkling lights on Long Island, where some of our soldiers had gone, and where it was reported Loudoun intended to make a fortified camp for the defense of the continent.

Presently Culverhouse came to me there. He, too, he said, in the absence of anything better to do, had been strolling about, and, seeing me staring over the water as if I were moonstruck, had joined me. I had not known Culverhouse long, but we had become very good friends. Though his military rank corresponded to mine, he was two or three years my senior, and had seen a good bit of life in the great European world, with the stories of which he often entertained me. Besides, there was so much that was frank and honest in Culverhouse’s nature that it was much easier to like him than to dislike him.

“Watching the proposed encampment, eh, Charteris?” he said. “Well, we can send a fine body of troops over there, but it seems to me our commanders could put them to better use. It scarce becomes us to wait here in New York for the French to attack us.”

There was a touch of bitterness in his tone. The shameless waste of time was the source of much vexation to the younger officers, and it was a comfort to speak of our grievances.

“We have fared badly enough in the war,” I said, “but suppose Montcalm were to have Loudoun’s abundance of resources and Loudoun were forced to endure Montcalm’s dearth of men, money, and material?”

“Why, then,” said Culverhouse, “King George would have to abandon claim to the last foot of soil on this Western continent. But our luck is not so bad as that. Perhaps we will go to the front some day, and then M. Montcalm may have to change the news that he sends to his master in Paris.”

“It is strange that Loudoun does not move,” I said. “I have heard that he is ambitious, and one would think he would seize the opportunity to win glory.”

“You have not seen him, then?” said Culverhouse briskly. “Perhaps your opportunity is coming now. He is to visit the town to-night, and, as he has been spending the day on Long Island, he must return by water. He should land near here.”

I proposed that we await the chance, and Culverhouse assented willingly.

“That may be the earl now,” he said, fifteen minutes later, pointing to a distant spatter of light on the stream.

The light was approaching, and we guessed it to be made by a lantern in a boat. That our surmise was correct was soon indicated by the faint splashing of oars. Then some one began to sing. The words were those of a lilting love ballad, which Culverhouse told me was a great favorite with people of quality in London.

“I think that is the commander in chiefs barge,” said Culverhouse.

“Do you know the voice of the singer?” I asked.

Culverhouse did not reply, and when I asked the question again he still failed to answer.

The song ceased, but it was followed by applause and laughter. The barge had now come into the light. It was gayly decorated, and carried a half dozen persons, besides the oarsmen. In the center of the boat sat a man of middle age. He had a florid face, a high forehead, and rather small eyes. His expression seemed to me to be both haughty and petulant. He wore a brilliant uniform, but his cocked hat was set a trifle more rakishly on one side than the sober-minded would deem consistent with dignity. He was speaking in rather heated tones to a man who sat facing him.

“I tell you, Hardy,” he said, “these fellows of yours are a pestiferous set to deal with. They expect too much of the King and his officers, and when they get it they expect more. Are we to spend all our time and energy in protecting people who should protect themselves?”

“But it is for such purposes that the King has sent us here, my lord,” replied the man gravely.

I recognized the second speaker, a substantial, elderly figure, as Sir Charles Hardy, who had but recently resigned his position as royal governor of the most loyal province of New York in order that a good sailor might not be spoiled in the making of a poor governor.

“It is true,” exclaimed the man, not abating the loudness or sharpness of his tone, “but we are not here to be cozened and cheated by them. They are shrewd hands at driving bargains, and think more of squeezing a profit out of my army than of contributing to the King’s grandeur and glory. This is a fine coil when a nobleman must serve the ends of such hucksters and traders.”

“The Earl of Loudoun, the commander in chief?” I whispered to Culverhouse.

He nodded.

We did not mean to be eavesdroppers, for I have ever despised such, but we could not withdraw without attracting attention to ourselves, perhaps to be followed by unpleasant inquiry.

“I think, my lord,” said Sir Charles mildly, “that you misjudge our people here. Doubtless there are cheats among them, but we have such at home in England, too, you know.”

“But they are not among our foremost men there,” said Loudoun, with a flushed face. “Besides, I like not the talk that has been carried on so freely about me here. It seems to me they take strange liberties with their betters in the colonies, Hardy. They compare me with Montcalm, and they say the Frenchman does not suffer by it. What do you think of that, Hardy?”

Sir Charles was silent for a few moments. I knew what his reply must be if he spoke the truth, but the Governor was a diplomatic man, and presently he said, smoothly and evenly:

“You must admit, my lord, that Montcalm has skill, and has been able to make some head against us. But I doubt not that when you take the field you will make disposition of him to the great satisfaction of his Majesty and all of us.”

“Ay, that I will. Hardy!” said the earl with returning cheerfulness. “Even now I am expecting news from Webb that he has chased Montcalm back into his own savage country. What can a few Frenchmen and their savage allies accomplish against my brave boys there?”

He waved his hand in the direction of the twinkling lights, where the bulk of the army lay, and then clapped it heavily upon the shoulder of a man who sat near him.

“What can the Frenchman and his savages effect against a real army, I say, McLean?” he asked, raising his voice again.

I had not paid until then any particular notice to the man whom he called McLean. But the earl’s action caused me to examine him closely. Though the blow was rather a heavy one, McLean did not yield to it a particle. His was an elderly face, darkened and seamed by years and exposure. He had a small, red eye, a high, hooked nose, and a stubby red beard. He was Scotch. That was plain enough. His face was one of great strength. Here was a man of will and action, I thought.

“One of the majors,” whispered Culverhouse.

“There are many in your army, my lord,” said Major McLean, “who would like to give the Frenchman the opportunity to see what he can do.”

“You make rather free. Major McLean,” said the earl, showing temper. Then he added more lightly, “But I must remember that you are one of those who have a most wicked appetite for war, and love to see the flash of the cannon—a most unchristian taste, I submit, is it not, Hardy?”

“Since there must be wars, it is well that some should have it,” said Sir Charles.

“And we do not think, my lord,” said the Scotchman, speaking in a firm, precise tone, “that it is a quality in the possession of which the French should excel us just now.”

“Let the French rest for awhile,” said Loudoun impatiently.

“My lord, we have let them rest too long already,” said the major.

Loudoun uttered something that sounded like an oath. But Major McLean was so much his senior in years and experience that he could scarcely resent openly the criticism that he knew to be so just.

“We will take these matters up in a day or two,” he said. “Meanwhile we will confine ourselves to the business in hand.”

The barge had reached the shore, but the oarsmen experienced some difficulty in holding it to the landing place. The boat and its lights had attracted another spectator, a tall, lank man, whose features we could not discern in the dusk.

The lapping of the tide swung the boat back and forth, and it bumped heavily more than once against the wharf. Loudoun, seized with impatience, cried out to the tall stranger, who had come near:

“Here, you lout, lend a hand and pull the boat up!”

The stranger slouched closer to the wharf, but made no movement to help. We were now able to obtain a better view of his face, and we saw that it was that of a boy rather than a man. He was at least six feet two inches tall, and as slim as a rail. A great shock of tow hair overhung a pair of blinking blue eyes. He leered inquisitively at the barge and its passengers.

“I say, you lout,” called Loudoun angrily, “bear a hand and help us with the boat!”

“What’s the matter with you, stranger?” asked the lad, speaking in a nasal drawl, and showing no signs of discomposure. “I don’t see no cause to get excited. That’s a tarnal fine uniform you have on, stranger. I’d like to have it. I’ll trade you these old clothes of mine for it.”

The elongated lad threw back his head and laughed an uproarious, idiotic laugh.

“This is a type of your huckstering, clumsy provincial. Hardy!” said Loudoun. “It is just as I said. What can we do with fellows like this?”

“Help us with the boat,” said Sir Charles to the lad. “This is the commander in chief, and you may have the opportunity to-morrow to tell your companions that you did a service for the Earl of Loudoun himself.”

“And if you don’t help us,” added Loudoun impatiently, “I may make it somewhat uncomfortable for you!”

The boy leaned his great length against a post, pulled at his tow locks, and said with a grin:

“I ain’t scared, and I ain’t goin’ to help neither. I ain’t no soldier to be ordered around. Let him help himself.”

“Dash the fellow for his impertinence!” exclaimed Loudoun. “I’ll give him a taste of discipline in advance myself!”

He attempted to leap from the boat to the wharf, but miscalculated, and fell with a great splash into the sea. Two stout oarsmen seized him and dragged him spluttering back into the boat.

The boy, whom I now took to be feeble of mind, bent over in a semicircle, put his hands upon his knees, and laughed in huge glee.

“Oh, what a splash you made!” he exclaimed between chuckles. “An’ that tarnation fine uniform all wet through and through!”

“I’ll have you flogged half to death!” exclaimed the earl furiously, coughing the dirty salt water out of his throat. Probably he would have carried out his threat, but when the men succeeded in tying the boat to the wharf and he stepped ashore the lad was gone in the darkness, slipping away as silently as an Indian.

“The earl will have to get a new uniform for the ball,” said Culverhouse.

“What ball?” I asked.

“Why, the ball at the Waltons’!” replied Culverhouse. “Have you forgotten?”

I had forgotten for the moment. But the events of the day were sufficient excuse for my condition of mind. I had an invitation to the ball, which was to be an exceeding great affair, graced by the presence of all the dignitaries, both military and civil, and I determined to attend.

An hour later Culverhouse and I approached the brilliantly illuminated residence, in Queen Street, of my prosperous fellow-townsman, Mr. William Walton, who, you will recall, was the son of Captain William Walton, a famous shipbuilder, and who made a great fortune out of some fine contracts with the Spanish at St. Augustine. I was myself a distant relative of his wife Cornelia, through the Beekmans, she being the daughter of Dr. William Beekman, whose wife, Catharine de la Noy, was my mother’s first cousin.

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