40 The Visit to the City

I remained at Stoneham four days, a hermit, or rather a prisoner, in my own house. Winchester visited me once more, but intimated that I should not leave until he came for me. Godfrey and the remainder of the men on the place seemed worried, and I caught them more than once whispering to each other, a conference that always broke up in a confused manner at my approach. But I was too proud to ask what troubles were before me or let them know of the sinking of the heart which I now felt so often.

Winchester returned on the evening of the fourth day.

“I think it best for you to come into town with me to-morrow, Lee,” he said. “The news of your being here is spreading, and ’tis the cause of some talk. I would face it at once. And if I were you, Lee, I would put on my bravest apparel—your captain’s uniform, you know—and choose your best horse, and we will ride together to the Carews. Mrs. Winchester is anxious to see you; she says that you have been secluding yourself too long.”

Winchester seemed to me to take a just view of the affair. It was poor and discreditable tactics to be so bold at a distance and then to flinch in the face of the enemy. Hence I arrayed myself in my captain’s uniform, shaved with extreme care, and selected the finest horse in the stable, a very presentable bay, having throughout the assistance of Godfrey and Sam. I knew, that whatever might befall, these two faithful souls, would remain loyal to me.

But I did not use the horse which I selected, as a handsome coach, with gilt panels and drawn by four horses, rattled up to the gates of Stoneham.

“It’s mine,” said Winchester, “or rather I hired it; ’twas the best that money could find in Philadelphia, and, I think on the whole I have done well. Honour me by getting in, will you, Lee?”

I sprang in, and there was Mrs. Winchester, very blonde and very beautiful, in silk of lilac and rose, with her hair drawn up monstrously high on her head in the fashion known as the “Queen’s Nightcap.”

“Since you would not come to see your friends, Captain Lee,” she said, “your friends have come for you.”

She was a good woman, and I was grateful to her for upholding me thus, feeling in truth somewhat ashamed that I did not have fit words in which to thank her.

Winchester entered the coach after me, the liveried driver cracked his whip, and we whirled away toward Philadelphia. Winchester, although it was a brilliant sunny morning, closed the coach door, and when I remarked upon it, said that we should at least go to the Carews unobserved. He seemed to me to be right, and I sighed that I should have to enter Philadelphia, in a way, concealed.

But I knew by passing glimpses through the glass that we had turned into the Germantown road, and would thus enter the city. This recalled to me the battle there, in which I, a mere slip of a boy, had borne my part, and when I aroused myself from these memories we were entering Philadelphia itself. Then I could not be restrained from looking through the glass door at the familiar houses, the streets, the church spires, and all the old sights known so well. But the streets seemed very silent for the great town that I had known and the greater town that they said it had become.

“Why, Philadelphia is as dull and sober as a New England village on Sunday,” I said to Winchester.

“The active part of the town has shifted since your time,” he replied. “Scarce any business is done in this quarter now.”

Our carriage now approached the heart of the city, and suddenly I heard a great shout ahead of us.

“’Tis the soldiers,” said Winchester, “and the people are cheering at the sight of the arms and the gay clothes. By my faith, Lee, despite all the Yankee talk about the dignity and rights of freeborn citizens, your populace is as frivolous and fond of the spectacular as any that we have in England.”

“And behold Captain Lee himself, who for so many years has practised the stoicism of the Indian, showing as much vain curiosity as any of them!” exclaimed Mrs. Winchester, leaning forward and putting her shoulders between me and the glass door.

“As I can not see through a lady in any sense,” I said, “I yield,” and I leaned back in my seat.

The shouting increased, and ’twas a great tumult made by many thousand voices. Then I heard the crash, not of one band, but of two or three or more, and so much sound, falling upon ears long accustomed to the silence of the wilderness, was doubled or tripled in effect.

“’Tis a great celebration evidently,” I said to Winchester.

“Ay,” he replied; “I think it is the anniversary of one of your battles with us. There’s to be a review of a great number of your old troops by the President. I’ve told our driver to take us by, and perhaps we may see a little of the spectacle.”

We went on, and the shouting continued to grow, and as the coach began to proceed but slowly, I judged that we were now well into the crowd. Then we stopped suddenly, and Winchester said:

“Let’s get out, Lee.”

He threw open the door, and without giving me time to ask the reason of his strange action, plucked me by the arm. I was out of the coach in a moment, blinded by the dazzling sunlight, and deafened by the roar of ten thousand voices in my ears.

But I distinguished the cries:

“It is he! it is he! Lee! Lee!”

All the blood rushed to my head. I had not expected such fierce and prompt resentment as this.

“Forgive me, Winchester, for bringing you and your wife among such wolves as these!” I cried, and I tried to draw my sword that I might drive back the leaders of the mob.

But he seized my arm and, laughing in my face, cried out:

“Save your sword for another day, Lee!”

Then he released me, and the shouting of the crowd ceased, a deep murmur taking its place. I looked around me and saw that I was in front of Independence Hall. The street was crowded with people as far as my eyes reached, but in a moment they separated, forming a narrow lane between. My arms were suddenly seized by two men, and even in that moment of confusion and excitement I knew them. They were the colonel and lieutenant-colonel of my old regiment in the full uniform of the Pennsylvania line.

Then the shouting was renewed, with double strength, so it seemed to me, and all the bands played at once. The officers walked forward, and I, as one dazed, walked with them, without resistance. We passed through the crowd, and then between lines of soldiers, and I began to see around me many faces that I knew—good comrades of the camp and field. The shouting and the music never ceased, and my eyes were blurred with tears, but I was conscious in a few moments that I stood in the presence of a very tall man in the Continental uniform, our immortal leader himself, and beyond him I saw Hamilton and Knox and Lear, and then a tall girl whose eyes were dewy. The shouting and the music stopped, and the President said:

“John Lee, you were accused and convicted of an infamous crime once, and now after fifteen years we find that you were not guilty. Yet with dishonour falsely resting upon you, you have served your country and served it well. ’Tis never too late to undo a wrong. Therefore the Congress of the republic presents you with this sword in place of the one that was broken before you, and also with this resolution of thanks, and with other perhaps more solid rewards of which you shall hear later. And may I shake your hand, John Lee?”

They thrust forward a great, gold-hilted sword and a roll of rustling parchment, and the President grasped my hand in both of his.

Then the thunder of the crowd and the crash of the bands began again, and I was glad of it, because I could not speak.

The President took my arm and led the way to his carriage, a great cream-coloured coach drawn by cream-coloured horses with white manes, and helped me in with his own hand. Then Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Knox, and Mr. Lear, the President’s chief secretary, followed us there, and I became conscious that we were moving.

“Where are we going? What is to be done?” I said.

“We are going where we are welcome, and we shall do what is pleasant,” replied the President, gravely taking a pinch of snuff.

The shouting continued and followed us, and when the coach stopped a great crowd was still around it. But it made way for us, and we approached a red-brick house with three stone steps leading up to the front door.

“Mr. Morris’s place,” I cried. I had played in the woods before it many a time.

“Ay, it’s Mr. Morris’s,” replied, the President, “but I live there now.”

It was true. This was now the home of the President of the United States, and I entered it arm in arm with its tenant, the others following behind and the crowd yet lingering about. They showed me the finest guest chamber, and left me alone, though Winchester presently joined me there. He sat down near a window and laughed with deep content.

“Well, Lee,” he said, “was your reception sufficiently hostile to please you?”

Then I laughed too. I was compelled to do so, as a relief to my feelings.

“Winchester,” I said, “how did this happen?”

“Ask your President,” he replied. “He seems to be the master of ceremonies, and I am willing to swear that none could manage them better. But keep yourself composed, Lee. There is to be a great state dinner, with your distinguished self as the guest of honour, and while you are waiting you might look at this newspaper, which I would not give you the other day.”

He tossed me a copy of the Gazette, and then I read the story how John Lee had been accused and convicted, and now was proved innocent. For the sake of the dead man who was of my own blood I will not dwell on the wretched tale. It was Jasper who was the traitor, who had plotted with the enemy, and who, when he was in danger of detection, had placed his incriminating letters among my belongings, where they were found. He was Lieutenant J. Lee and so was I; with cunning prevision he had used in the correspondence only the initial J., and he had spoken of himself, too, in such a manner that it seemed to be I and not he who was meant. In the face of such evidence my denials amounted to nothing. I wonder if Jasper ever felt remorse? Then the newspaper told that Congress had voted me a sword, a resolution of thanks, the restoration of Stoneham, and a great tract of land in the Northwestern Territory which I had fought with such valour and skill—I quote the Gazette—to save for the republic.

“There is more to the tale than the newspaper tells,” said Winchester, “but you are likely to hear of that later.”

We were summoned after a while to the best drawing-room of the President’s wife, a large chamber with a great crystal chandelier hanging in the centre of the ceiling, beneath which she stood, a little lady with hair drawn, like Mrs. Winchester’s, high upon her head, in order to give her the effect of greater height. She remembered me well, she said, a brown-haired boy, noted for his recklessness and excessive trust in human nature, and spoke as if there had been nothing unusual in my life since then.

We went presently into the dining-room, where the state dinner was served, the President of course presiding, a magnificent figure in black velvet knee-breeches and coat, and pearl satin waistcoat set off with fine linen and lace and glittering buckles. I saw around me the foreign ministers, the members of the Cabinet, Mr. and Mrs. Winchester, Underwood, now member of Congress from Kentucky, my old colonel and lieutenant-colonel, a French gentleman of distinguished appearance whom I afterward learned to be the Due de Liancourt—I have just read in a French journal his account of “eette affaire extraordinaire,” as he termed this event; and beyond him two familiar faces—one that of De Chamillard, and the other, to my deep surprise, Osseo; yes, it was the Son of the Evening Star, his magnificent embroidered blue blanket drawn in graceful folds over his shoulders, and the humorous light twinkling in his eyes as they met mine, the son of the woods himself not one whit abashed by the mahogany and china and silver and brilliant uniforms, but calm, perfectly poised, and never looking more thoroughly the chief than at that moment.

“And in all your glory can you not find one word for me?”

It was Rose Carew, who had slipped quietly into the seat beside me.

“’Tis not my fault that I am sitting in this chair,” she said. “The President’s wife made me come here. ’Twas your duty to bring me out, but they forgot to tell you somehow, and behold, I am come.”

She looked up at me with eyes brightly smiling, and I felt a great rush of happiness. There had been two Rose Carews before, the girl whom I had rescued in the woods and the proud woman of fashion, but now they were the same; my wood nymph and the most beautiful woman in Philadelphia were one.

I have never had a distinct recollection of that dinner, because even then my impressions were only of light, colour, many bright faces, and a great joy. And yet it was ceremonious in all its aspects. It was superintended by the famous Uncle Harkless himself, a dainty macaroni in black small-clothes, blue silk stockings, and huge blue cloth coat with velvet collar and great metal buttons shining like silver. But too many great surprises had burst upon me at once to leave me in a calm mind; and when at last they toasted me, standing, as one whom his country could never repay, but would try, the President himself pronouncing the words, I could stammer but a little in reply.

I met Osseo later, and he saluted me with much gravity.

“Well, Osseo,” I said with some pride, “I am at last proved to be an innocent man.”

“It is so,” he replied; “but Lee is no better in the sight of Manito now than he was before.”

Such was the faith of this Indian. When he liked one, the opinion of the world concerning that man was nothing to him.

“I have come to see the great city where men tread upon each other,” he continued. “The Tornado asked me to come, and I have brought with me the mad Frenchman, who is not less mad here than he is in the forest.”

I stood alone with the President at last, an opportunity for which I had been waiting long, and I poured out my thanks.

“It is you and the Congress who have done this,” I said.

He laughed.

“You deceive yourself easily, Captain Lee,” he said. “I believed your case closed, and even had I thought otherwise I have had no opportunity in all these years to review it. Nor do Congresses occupy themselves with the old wrongs of an individual. You must look elsewhere, Captain Lee.”

“I am at a loss,” I said, and truly I was.

“There is no one,” he replied, “who would do so much for a man but a woman. There is no one in the first instance who would have the faith in his innocence but a woman, and there is no one who, having it, would come here from the West, toil two years to prove that innocence, searching among mouldy old documents, sending to England to procure from my Lord Cornwallis himself the proof that it was Jasper Lee and not John Lee who was the criminal, and then, even before her case was complete, going back into the wilderness to follow this man and save his life from the treachery of another. She must have had a powerful motive to do so much, and I think that on the whole he will be repaid for all that he has suffered. Go into the garden and you will find some one who can tell you about it.”

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