THE STORY OF THE WHITE HORSE
Lafayette was born on September 6, 1757, in the province of Auvergne, now Cantal, Puy-de-Dôme, and Haute-Loire. His birthplace was the Château de Chavagnac, situated some six miles from ancient Brionde.
Auvergne was celebrated for men of character and honor rather than wealth and distinction—men who deserved to outlive kings, and whose jewels were virtues. It became a proverb that the men of Auvergne knew no stain, and hence the ensigns and escutcheons of the rugged soldiers of the mountain towns were associated with the motto, “Auvergne sans tache.”
These soldiers kept this motto of their mountain homes ever in view; they would die rather than violate the spirit of it.
Lafayette was of noble family, and appeared at court when a boy. But the gay court did not repress the spirit of Auvergne which lived in him, and grew. He was of noble family, and his father fell at the battle of Minden. The battery that caused his father’s death was commanded by General Phillips, against whom Lafayette fought in the great Virginia campaign.
At the age of sixteen, the spirit of the mountaineers of Auvergne rose within him. He became an ardent advocate of the liberties of men, and he seemed to see the star of liberty rising in the Western world, and he was restless to follow it. He heard of the American Congress as an assembly of heroes of a new era—the new Senate of God and human rights. Princes, after his view, should not violate the law of the people.
The heart of the King of France, while France at first professed neutrality in the American struggle, was with the patriots; so was the sympathy of the gay French court. The boy Lafayette knew this; he longed to carry this secret news to America.
He came to America, as we have described, with this secret in his heart.
The capture of Burgoyne in October, 1777, delighted France. The clock of liberty had struck; it only needed the aid of France to give independence to the Americans.
Lafayette became more restless. He had married into a noble family, but the companionship of a beautiful and true woman could not stifle this patriotic restlessness. He saw that he might be an influence in bringing France to the aid of America. To do this became his life.
The Queen espoused the cause of America; let us ever remember this, notwithstanding that there are so many unpleasant things about her to remember. Then the American cause seemed to fail in the Jerseys and France to lose her interest in it.
Young Lafayette’s heart was true to America in these dark hours. He knew that France could be aroused to action. He espoused the cause of America in her darkness, and doubtless dreamed of being able to convey to Washington a secret, that few other men so clearly saw. France would espouse the cause of America when events should open the way.
Never such a secret crossed the sea as young Lafayette bore in his bosom to Washington. It came, as it were, out of Auvergne; it was borne against every allurement of luxury and self; it was an inborn imperative. When a new world was to be revealed, Columbus had to sail; when liberty was to be established among men, Lafayette, the child of destiny, had to face the west; where was there another race of liberty-loving men like those of the Connecticut farmers? In Auvergne. Who of all men could represent this spirit of liberty in America? Lafayette.
He won the heart of America; even the British respected him. His true sympathy was the cause of his great popularity; his heart won all hearts.
In the terrible winter of 1778 the American army with Washington and Lafayette were at Valley Forge; the British were in Philadelphia, spending a gay winter reveling.
No pen can describe the destitution and suffering of the 5,000 or more patriots at Valley Forge. The white snows of that winter in the wilderness were stained with the blood of naked feet. Famine came with the cold.
The men were “hutted” in log cabins. “The general’s apartment is very small,” wrote Mrs. Washington; “he has a log cabin built to dine in, which has made our quarters much more tolerable than they were at first.”
There was no fresh meat there; no sufficient salted provisions. There were no cattle in the neighboring towns or States that could be spared for the army.
But they suffered in silence. They went half-clothed and hungry, but they did not desert.
“Nothing can equal their sufferings,” wrote one of an examining committee. Even the cannon was frozen in, and bitten by the frost were the limbs of those who were commissioned to handle them.
Had General Howe, whose army was dissipating at Philadelphia, led out his troops against the famine-stricken army in the Valley, what might have been the fate of the American cause?
The dissipations of the English army was one cause of its overthrow. That army had been reveling when surprised at Trenton.
With his men wasting and dying around him, shoeless, coatless, foodless, what was Washington to do?
At one of the dismal councils of his generals there came a counsel that made the hearts all quicken.
“Send to Connecticut for cattle. Let us appeal to Brother Jonathan again; he has never failed us.”
“I never made an appeal to Brother Jonathan but to receive help,” said the great commander.
The appeal was made. In his letter to Governor Trumbull, Washington said:
“What is still more distressing, I am assured by Colonel Blaine, deputy purchasing commissary for the middle district, comprehending the States of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Maryland, that they are nearly exhausted, and the most vigorous and active exertions on his part will not procure more than sufficient to supply the army during this month, if so long. This being the case, and as any relief that can be obtained from the more southern States will be but partial, trifling, and of a day, we must turn our eyes to the eastward, and lay our account of support from thence. Without it, we can not but disband. I must, therefore, sir, entreat you in the most earnest terms, and by that zeal which has eminently distinguished your character in the present arduous struggle, to give every countenance to the person or persons employed in the purchasing line in your State, and to urge them to the most vigorous efforts to forward supplies of cattle from time to time, and thereby prevent such a melancholy and alarming catastrophe.”
Read these words twice: “Without it the army must disband.”
As soon as Governor Trumbull had received the letter he called together the Council of Safety. He read it to them. They wept.
“An army of cattle might save the cause,” said one.
“Our suffering brothers shall have the army of cattle,” said Brother Jonathan.
He at once aroused the farmers of Connecticut. Horsemen dashed hither and thither, away from Hartford and from the war office to the hillside farms.
“Cattle! cattle!” they cried. “Our army is perishing. Washington has appealed to Brother Jonathan!”
At the head of these alarmists rode Dennis O’Hay, awakening the villages with his resonant brogue:
“It is cattle, an army of cattle, that Washington must have now! His men are going barefooted in the snow. Oh, the shame of it! His men have no meat to warm their veins in the cold. Oh, the shame of it! They fever, they wither, they are buried in clumps and clods. Oh, the shame of it! Arouse, or the heavens will fall down on you! Cattle! Cattle!”
The thrifty hillside farmers had made many sacrifices already, but they responded.
An army of cattle began to form. It increased. Nearly every farm could spare one or more beeves, armed with fat flesh and warm hides.
So it started, armed, as it were, with horns, Dennis leading them under officers.
Three hundred miles it marched, gathering force along the way.
It entered at last the dreary wilderness of the suffering camp. The men saw it coming. There went up a great shout, which ran along the camp, and went up from even the hospital huts:
“The Lord bless Brother Jonathan!”
The officers hailed the cattle-drivers.
“Should we win our independence,” said an officer, “what will we not owe to Brother Jonathan and his army of cattle from the provision State!”
Dennis froze with the others that winter.
In the spring he returned, moneyless, fameless. Half of his face was black, and one hand had gone. The explosion of a powder-wagon which he had been forcing on toward Washington’s army had caused the change in his appearance, but it was rugged work that Dennis O’Hay had done during that past winter for the army.
The Governor heard his story.
“Dennis O’Hay,” said he, “when America achieves her liberty, and her true history shall be written, the inspired historian will see in such as you the cause of the mighty event. It is men who are willing to suffer and be forgotten that advance the welfare of mankind; it is not wealth or fame that lifts the world: it is sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice! That means you, Dennis O’Hay.
“Dennis, did you know that they once offered me the place of the colonial agent to London? They did, and I refused for the good of my own people at home. That is a sweet thing for me to remember. The only thing that a man can have in this world to last is righteous life. This is true, Dennis: that the private soldier who seeks all for his cause and nothing for himself is the noblest man in the annals of war, unless it be a Washington.”
“And you, Governor Trumbull.”
Dennis took off his hat and bowed low.
The Governor also took off his hat and bowed twice, and the people who had gathered around took off their hats and shouted.
“The stars will hear ye when ye shout for Brother Jonathan,” said Dennis O’Hay. “I have brought home a secret with me.”
“What may it be?” asked many.
“It would not be a secret were I to tell it.”
Dennis, after driving his army of cattle, with underdrivers, had entered lustily the place of the halted army of desolation. He had remained there until spring. He was greeted there one day by two men, one a tower of majestic manhood, the other a glittering young man of warm heart and enthusiasm; they were Washington and Lafayette.
“Your army will save us, my good friend,” said the man of majestic presence.
“This army will save the cause,” said the younger officer.
There was a look of hope in his face that revealed to Dennis that he had some secret ground for this confidence.
Washington moved away to his marquee.
Dennis, hat in hand, said to Lafayette:
“May I detain you a moment, your Honor?”
“Yes, my honest man; what would you have? I hope that it may be something that I can grant.”
“Do you remember that day when you spoke of a body of men as the bugles of Auvergne?”
“Yes, my good friend, and how do those words impress you?”
“I can never tell. They are words within words. What I want to ask of you is—pardon my bluntness, I was not bred in courts, as you see—couldn’t you induce those men who blow the bugles of Ovan to come here and give us a lift? My heart tells me that they would be just the men we would need. I don’t so much hear words as the spirit of things, and the heart knows its own.”
“I will think of these things, my good friend of the honest heart. I do think of them now. I will entrust you, a stranger, with a secret. Will you never tell it until the day that makes it clear arrives?”
“Never, never, never—oh, my heart dances when I hear good things of the cause of these people struggling so mightily for their liberties—no, no, the tail goes with the kite; I will never tell.”
“I am now writing to the court of France. If I get good news, I will ask for the French mountaineers whose banner is Auvergne sans tache!”
“May the heavens all take off their hats to ye and the evil one never get ye. I can see them coming now, a kind o’ vision, with their banners flying. I have second sight, and see good things. Why do not people see good things now, like the prophets of old, and not witches and ghosts? To Dennis O’Hay the passing clouds are angels’ chariots. Oh, I will never forget you, and I would deem it an honor above honors if you will not forget Dennis O’Hay.”
“One thing more, good Dennis, I have to say to you before we part. If a French ship should come to Norwich from Lyons, you may learn more about Auvergne, which is the Connecticut of France.”
“Then you must be like the Governor, who is so all wrapped up in the cause that he has forgotten to grow old.”
The young French officer drew his cloak about him, and touched his hat and went to the marquee.
Dennis laid down to rest among some wasted men of the army by a fire of fagots. He dreamed, and he saw French ships sailing in the air. He had read the success of the cause amid all these miseries in the heart of young Lafayette.
“That boy general has the vision of it all,” said he.
The Irishman as a bearer of despatches from Governor Trumbull was not without importance.
Dennis lingered to rest by the marquees of the officers under the moon and stars. He listened for words of hope. One night Lafayette talked. He engaged all ears.
“I was born at Auvergne, in the mountain district of France,” said he, “and the soldiers of Auvergne are sons of liberty. They are mountaineers. I would that I could induce France to send an army of those mountaineers to America. They are rugged men; they believe in justice, and equal rights, and equal laws, and for this cause they are willing to die. They have a grand motto, to which they have always been true. It is ‘Auvergne sans tache’—Auvergne without a stain. I love a soldier of Auvergne, a mountaineer of the glorious air in which I was born.”
His mind seemed to wander back to the past.
“‘Auvergne sans tache,’” said he. “‘Auvergne sans tache’—these words command me, they have entered into my soul. Would these men were here, and that I could lead them to victory!”
Dennis caught the atmosphere.
“And sure, your Honor, people find what they seek, and all good dreams come true sometime, and you will bring them here some day. I seem to feel it in my soul.”
The officers shouted.
“And it is from Connecticut I am.”
The young Frenchman may never have heard of the place before.
“And brought despatches to General Putnam from Brother Jonathan.
“May I ask what were these words of the French mountaineers who are just like us—‘Auvergne sans tache’? I wonder if this poor head can carry those words back to Lebanon green—Ovan-saan-tarche! The words ring true, like a bell that rings for the future. I somehow feel that I will hear them again somewhere. Ovan-saan-tarche, Ovan-saan-tarche! I will go now. I must tell the Governor and all the people about it on the green—Ovan-saan-tarche! What shall I tell the people of the cedars?”
“Tell the people of the cedars that there is a young French officer in the camp here that thinks that he carries in his heart a secret that will give liberty to America; that aid will come from a district in France that grows men like the cedars.”
Now the secret of Lafayette haunted the mind of Dennis.
“A spandy-dandy boy told me something strange,” said he to the Governor, on his return. “He was a Frenchman, with a shelving forehead and red hair, and Washington seemed to be hugging his company, as it were; the General saw something in him that others did not see. I think he has what you would call a discerning of spirits. I thought I saw the same thing.”
“Washington, it is likely, relies on this officer, because the young Frenchman believes in him and in the cause,” said the Governor. “Washington is human, and he must have a lonesome heart, and he must like to have near him those who believe in him and in the cause. That is natural.”
There was to be a corn-roast in the cedars—a popular gathering where green corn was roasted on the ear by a great fire and distributed among the people.
Had Lebanon been nearer the sea there would have been a clambake, as the occasion of bringing together the people, instead of a corn-roast.
At the clambakes bivalves and fish were roasted on heated stones under rock-weed, sea-weed, and a covering of sail-cloth, the latter to keep down the steam.
The people gathered for the corn-roast, bringing luscious corn in the green husks, new potatoes, apples, and fruit. The women brought pandowdy, or pot-pies, made of apples baked in dough, which candied in baking, and also brown bread, and rye and Indian bread, and perhaps “no cake,” all of which was to be eaten on the carpet of the dry needles of the great pines that mingled among the cedars.
This was to be a lively gathering, for a report had gone abroad that Dennis had seen a prophet and had received great news from a young French officer, and that he would tell his story among the speeches on that day.
It was in the serene and sunny days of September. The locusts made a silvery, continuous music in the trees. The birds were gathering for migrations. The fields were full of goldenrod and wild asters, and the oaks by the wayside were here and there loaded with purple grapes.
The people came to the cedar grove from near and from far, and every one seemed interested in Dennis.
The Irishman towered above them all, bringing deadwood for the fires.
The feast was eaten on the ground, and the people were merry, all wondering what story Dennis, who had been to the army and seen the great Washington himself, would have to tell.
The people watched him as he brought great logs on his shoulders to feed the fire where the corn was roasted.
Brother Jonathan and his good wife came to the goodly gathering. The people arose to greet him, and the children gathered around him, and looked up to him as a patriarch. He was then some sixty-seven years old.
After the feast he lifted his hands and spoke to the people. The cedar birds gathered around him in the trees, and one adventurous crow came near and cawed. Dennis threw a stick at the crow, and said:
“Be civil now, and listen to the Governor!”
After the Governor had spoken, “Elder” Williams spoke. But it was from Dennis that the people most wished to hear.
They called upon the village esquire to speak.
He was a portly man. He arose and said:
“I will not detain you long. It is Dennis for whom you are waiting.”
He said a few words, and then called:
“Dennis? Dennis O’Hay?”
“At your service,” said Dennis, drawing near, hat in hand.
“Dennis, they say that you met a prophet in the army.”
“That I did, sir, and I mind me the secret of the skies is in his heart.”
“How did he look?”
“Oh, he was a skit of a man, with a slanting roof to his forehead, and lean-to at the back of it. He was all covered with spangles and bangles, and he followed the great Washington here and there, like as if he was his own son. That is how it was, sir.”
The people wondered. This was not the kind of a prophet that Elder Williams had preached about in the Lebanon pulpit for twoscore years.
The elder stood up, and said: “Be reverent, my young man.”
“That I am, sir. I answered the esquire after the truth, sir.”
“And what made you think that such a frivolous-looking man as that could be a prophet? Prophets are elderly men, and plain in their dress and habits, and grave in face. Why did you think that this gay young man was a prophet?”
“Because, your reverence, I could see that Washington believed in him—the great Washington, and the man prophesied, too.”
“To whom did he prophesy?”
“To me, to your humble servant, sir.”
The people laughed in a suppressive way, but wondered more than ever.
“What did he say, Dennis?”
“That I can never tell, sir. He has a woman’s heart, sir, and she has a man’s heart, sir, and both have the people’s heart, sir; and one day there will be fleets on the sea, sir, and strange armies will appear on our shores, sir. They may come here, sir, and encamp in the cedars, sir. Oh, I am an honest man, and seem to see it all, sir.”
“How old is your prophet, Dennis?”
“I would think that he might be twenty, sir; no, a hundred; no, as old as liberty, sir, with all his bangles and spangles.”
“That is very strange,” said the esquire. “I fear that you may have wheels in your head, Dennis—were any of your people ever a little touched in mind?”
“No, never; they had clear heads. An’ why do I believe that this young man carries a secret in his heart that will deliver America? Because he has the heart of the mountaineers of God. He belongs to the sons of liberty in France, and little he cares for his bangles and spangles.”
“But he is too young.”
“No, no; pardon me, sir, he has an ardent heart, that he has. It is all on fire. Wasn’t David young when he took up a little pebbly rock and sent the giant sprawling? Wasn’t King Alfred young when he put down his foot and planted England? Wasn’t Samuel young when he heard a voice?”
The people began to cheer Dennis.
“The true heart knows its own. Washington’s heart does.
“You may laugh, but I have met a prophet. The gold lace on him does not spoil his heart. He comes out of the past, he is going into the future; he loves everybody, and everybody that meets him loves him. Laugh if you will, but Dennis O’Hay has seen a prophet, and you will see what is in his heart some day.
“He has a motto. What is his motto, do you ask? Ovan-saan-tarche!—Ovan without a stain. That is the motto of the soldiers of the place where he was born. That place is like this place, I mind me. He says: ‘America will be free when she shall hear the bugles of Ovan.’”
“What is his name?” asked the esquire.
“His name? Bother me if I can remember it now. It is the same as the boy said. But you will come to know it some day, now heed you this word in the cedars. Lafayette—yes, Lafayette—that is his name. It is written in the stars, but bother me, it flies away from me now like a bird from a wicker-cage. But, but, hear me, ye good folks all, receive it, Governor, believe it, esquire—that young man’s heart holds the secret of America. There are helpers invisible in this world, and the heavens elect men for their work, not from any outward appearance, but from the heart. This is the way God elected David of old.”
A blue jay had been listening on a long cedar bough stretched out like an arm.
She archly turned her head, raised her crown and gave a trumpet-call, and flew over the people.
The men shouted, and the women and children cheered Dennis, and the grave Governor said:
“Life is self-revealing, time makes clear all things, and if our good man Dennis has indeed discovered a prophet, it will all be revealed to us some day. Elder Williams, pray!”
The old man stood up under the cedars; the women bowed. Then the people went home to talk of the strange tidings that Dennis had brought them.
Was there, indeed, some hidden secret of personal power in the heart of this young companion of Washington, who had made honor his motto and liberty his star?
CHAPTER XII
LAFAYETTE TELLS HIS SECRET
There is one part of the career of young Lafayette that has never been brought into clear light, and that part was decisive in the destinies of America. It was his letters home. From the time of his commission as an officer in the American army he was constantly writing to French ministers, asking them to use their influence to send aid to America.
He had the favor of the court, and the heart of the popular and almost adored Queen. He felt that his letters must bring to America a fleet. He poured his heart into them.
[The surrender of Burgoyne] brought about a treaty between France and the United States. It was one of alliance and amity. France recognized the United States among the powers of the world, and received Dr. Benjamin Franklin as minister plenipotentiary to the court.
For this great movement the letters of Lafayette had helped to prepare the way.
His heart rejoiced when he found that this point of vantage had been gained.
He was the first to receive the news of the treaty.
He went with the tidings to Washington. It revealed to the strong leader the future.
Washington was a man of silence, but his heart was touched; a sense of gratitude to Heaven seemed to inspire him.
“Let public thanksgivings of gratitude ascend to Heaven,” he said. “Assemble the brigades, and let us return thanks to God.”
The brigades were assembled. The cannon boomed! Songs of joy arose and prayers were said.
Then a great shout went up that thrilled the young heart of Lafayette.
“Vive le roi!—Long live the King of France!”
That thanksgiving set the bells of New England to ringing, and was a means of recruiting the army everywhere.
Lafayette heard the news with a full heart, and he himself only knew how much he had done silently to renew the contest for liberty.
Congress began to see his value. They honored him, and that gave him the influence to say:
“I came here for the cause. I must return to France for the cause.”
He said of this crisis, and we use his own words here:
“From the moment I first heard the name of America, I began to love her; from the moment I understood that she was struggling for her liberties, I burned to shed my best blood in her cause, and the days I shall devote to the service of America, whatever and wherever it may be, will constitute the happiest of my life. I never so ardently desired as I do now to deserve the generous sentiments with which these States and their representatives have honored me.”
He obtained from Congress permission to return to France in the interest of the cause of liberty.
It was 1778. He had arrived on the American shores a mere boy and a stranger. Now that he returned to France, the hearts of all Americans followed him. He was twenty-two years of age. He was carrying a secret with him that he was beginning to reveal and that the world was beginning to see.
In serving the cause of the States he felt that he was promoting the cause of the liberty of mankind. France might one day feel its reaction, burst her old bonds, and become a giant republic.
France arose to meet him on his return. Havre threw out her banners to welcome his ship. He was acclaimed, feasted, and lauded everywhere, until he longed to fly to some retreat from all of this adoration of a simple young general.
The Queen, Marie Antoinette, admired him, and became his patron. She received him and delighted to hear from him about America and the character of Washington. Lafayette delighted the Queen with his story of Washington.
After these interviews, in which Lafayette saw that he had secured her favor for the American cause, the Queen had an interview with Dr. Franklin.
“Do you know,” said the Queen to Franklin, “that Lafayette has really made me fall in love with your General Washington. What a man he must be, and what a friend he has in the Marquis!”
The court opened its doors to meet him. The King welcomed him. All Paris acclaimed him. The people of France were all eager to hear of him.
What an opportunity! Lafayette seized upon it. He was not moved by the flattery of France. Every heart-beat was full of his purposes to secure aid for America.
This he did.
“I will send a fleet to America,” said the King.
The young King was popular then, and this decision won for him the heart of liberty-enkindled France.
Lafayette’s heart turned home to the heroic mountaineers.
“If it can be done,” he said to the military department, “let there be sent to America the soldiers of Auvergne, they of the banners of ‘Auvergne sans tache.’”
Two hundred young noblemen offered their services to Lafayette.
He left France for America. Banquet-halls vied with each other in farewells.
But the night glitter of the palaces were as nothing to the words of the young King: “You can not better serve your King than by serving the cause of America!”
He left France in tears, to be welcomed by shouts of joy in America.
He brought back the news to Washington that henceforth the cause of America and France were one, and that he hoped soon to welcome here the grenadiers of Auvergne—“Auvergne sans tache!”—the bugles of Auvergne!
Peter brought the message that announced this great news to the war office.
The Governor’s face lighted when the boy appeared at the door.
“What is it now?” he asked. “You always bring joy to my heart!”
“France in alliance,” said the Governor. “May France herself live to become a republic. And the Queen has espoused our cause!”
Peter went from the office with heart full of joy. Good news from the seat of war made his heart as light as a bird—it made him whittle and whistle.
Out in the cold, watching nights, Peter’s heart turned to the wood-chopper, who had seemed to love the King more than him. He felt that the old man must be lonely in his cabin, with only the blue jays and the squirrels, and the like to cheer him. Peter could seem to hear him chop, chop, chopping wood.
He met him once in the way, and the old man talked of the King—“my king.”
“He is only a man,” said Peter, in defense of the cause.
“Only a man?” said the wood-chopper. “His arms are like the lion and unicorn—and they have taken down the King’s arms in Philadelphia and overturned his statue in New York. But the lion and the unicorn still stand on the old State-house, Boston. Hurrah for King George III! They may do what they will with me, but my heart will still say: ‘Long live the King!’”
He seemed to think that the King wore a real lion and unicorn on his arms, or to so imagine him.
Poor old man on the by-way of the Lebanon cedars! Peter pitied him, for he felt that he had, after all, a very human heart.
Dennis went again to the camp of Washington to confer with the General in regard to movements of powder, and there he saw Lafayette.
The Frenchman, indeed, did not look like a prophet now, nor like one of the yeomen of the hill-towns of Connecticut.
He was in command of the advance guard of Washington’s army (1780), composed of six battalions of light artillery. These men glittered in the sun. They did not look like Connecticut volunteers. The officers were armed with spontoons and fuses; they wore sabres—French sabres, presented them by Lafayette. Their banners shone. Their horses were proud.
“An’ I fear I have missed my prophet that I calculated him to be,” said Dennis, “and that the cedar folks will all laugh at me. Prophets do not dash about in such finery as this. There he comes, sure, on a spanking horse. I wonder if he would speak to me now.”
The young Frenchman came dashing by in his regalia.
Dennis lifted his hat.
Lafayette halted.
“I came from the cedars—Brother Jonathan’s man, that I am. You remember Ovan-saan-tarche.”
“Yes, yes, my hearty friend,” said the Frenchman, bowing.
“How is his Excellency?”
“Sound in head and heart, and firm in his heels, which he never turns to his country’s enemies.”
“Have you a wife, my friend?” bowing.
“No, no, but I’ve a sweetheart in old Ireland.”
“Happy man!” bowing.
“But I go my way alone now.”
“Lucky dog!” said the Marquis, with provincial rudeness, bowing and bowing.
“And there is one question which I wish to ask you. I have been telling the home people that you are a prophet, and not much like an old prophet do you look now—pardon me, your Honor. You once told me that you carried a secret in your heart that was to free America. Do you carry that secret now?”
“Yes, yes, my friend, from the cedars. The French fleet came; that was a part of my secret. But I am carrying a greater one. You will soon hear the bugles of Auvergne. When you hear the bugles of Auvergne, then you will believe that my soul is true to America. Dennis, let me take your hand.”
He took the Irishman’s hand, bowing.
“There is true blood in that hand,” bowing.
“There is true blood in yours,” said Dennis, “and the secret of the skies is in your soul.”
“And there are two crowns in that secret and the heart of France. And one of the crowns is a woman’s—a glorious woman’s. Oh, Dennis, you should see our Queen! She admires Washington, she loves America!”
Dennis dropped down on his knees.
The glittering Frenchman rode away, bowing to the prostrate man.
“An’ I do believe he is a prophet, after all,” said Dennis.
It would be great news that he would have to take back to Lebanon now. How that French prophet bowed and bowed to him.
His heart rejoiced to bear good news to the Governor.
Peter, as we have said, delighted in bringing the Governor good news. One day he was sent to Boston for letters which were expected to arrive from England. One was given him for the Governor which was marked “Important.” He hurried back to the war office with it, running his spirited horse much of the way.
He delivered the letter to the Governor, in the war office.
“Wait!” said the Governor, as he was about to go.
The Governor read the letter, and then walked around and around in the little room.
“It is from my son John,” said he. “He has been arrested in London, and is in prison.” The Governor continued to walk in the room.
John Trumbull had gone abroad in 1780, to study painting under the great master, Benjamin West. The British Secretary for American Affairs had assured him that he would be protected as an artist if he did not interfere in political affairs.
Colonel Trumbull once thus related the story of his arrest in a vivid way:
“A thunderbolt falling at my feet would not have been more astounding; for, conscious of having done nothing politically wrong, I had become as confident of safety in London as I should have been in Lebanon. For a few moments I was perfectly disconcerted, and must have looked very like a guilty man. I saw, in all its force, the folly and the audacity of having placed myself at ease in the lion’s den; but by degrees I recovered my self-possession, and conversed with Mr. Bond, who waited for the return of Mr. Tyler until past one o’clock. He then asked for my papers, put them carefully under cover, which he sealed, and desired me also to seal; having done this, he conducted me to a lock-up house, the Brown Bear in Drury Lane, opposite to the (then) police office. Here I was locked into a room, in which was a bed, and a strong, well-armed officer, for the companion of my night’s meditations or rest. The windows, as well as the door, were strongly secured by iron bars and bolts, and seeing no possible means of making my retreat, I yielded to my fate, threw myself upon the bed, and endeavored to rest.
“At eleven o’clock the next morning I was guarded across the street, through a crowd of curious idlers, to the office, and placed in the presence of the three police magistrates—Sir Sampson Wright, Mr. Addington, and another. The examination began, and was at first conducted in a style so offensive to my feelings that it soon roused me from my momentary weakness, and I suddenly exclaimed: ‘You appear to have been much more habituated to the society of highwaymen and pickpockets than to that of gentlemen. I will put an end to all this insolent folly by telling you frankly who and what I am. I am an American—my name is Trumbull; I am a son of him whom you call the rebel Governor of Connecticut; I have served in the rebel American army; I have had the honor of being an aide-de-camp to him whom you call the rebel General Washington.’”
He had said too much; he slept that night “in a bed with a highwayman.”
“This is not your accustomed good news, my boy,” said the Governor.
“Another ship with letters is soon expected in the fort,” said Peter. “That may bring good news.”
“Peter, I love the bearer of good news. Go back to Boston, and if you bring me news to comfort me, it is well; if not, you will have done your duty. Ride with the wind!” These were common words of hurry.
Peter rode with the wind. In a few days he returned on a foaming horse to the war office.
The Governor met him.
“He is released!” said the boy.
The Governor stood with beaming face.
Presently an old man came hobbling up to the door. It was the wood-chopper.
He looked up to Peter helplessly and yet with a glow of pride and gratitude.
“Boy,” he said, “I turned you out, but you came back in my hour of danger. Is there any news from the King?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“What may it be?”
“He is going to spare John Trumbull’s life and set him free.”
The old man staggered.
“Hurrah for King George!” he said. “My king! my king!”
He sunk down on the grass. “My king! my king!”
That the reader may have the exact truth of this bit of fact-fiction, let me give you the anecdote from history, that so finely reveals the better side of the character of the half-insane old King.
Benjamin West, on hearing of the arrest of his pupil, went directly to the King in Buckingham Palace, and asked for the young American painter’s release.
“I am sorry for the young man,” said his Majesty George III, “but he is in the hands of the law, and must abide the result; I can not interpose. Do you know whether his parents are living?”
“I think I have heard him say,” replied Mr. West, “that he has very lately received news of the death of his mother; I believe his father is living.”
“I pity him from my soul!” exclaimed the King. “But, West,” said he, after musing for a few moments, “go to Mr. Trumbull immediately, and pledge to him my royal promise, that, in the worst possible event of the law, his life shall be safe!”
“I pity him from my soul!” The poor King had a heart to feel. This is the most beautiful anecdote of King George that we have ever found.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BUGLES BLOW
A high sound of bugles rang out in the still summer air.
It stopped all feet in the country of the cedars—it seemed as though the world stopped to listen.
Again the tone filled the summer air—nearer.
The ospreys and crows were flying high in air, down the odorous way where the bugles were blowing.
Again, and nearer.
Were the bugles those of Rochambeau, who had landed at Newport, or of a troop of the enemy coming to surprise the town?
It was a time of expectancy, and also of terror.
Why of terror?
It was known that Rochambeau had landed at Newport, and was coming to Lebanon—it was in the air. He would stop at Newport, and it was believed that Washington would go there to meet him. Washington might go by way of New London and Lebanon or over the great turnpike road of Massachusetts and Connecticut; but whatever way he might take, it was believed that he would stop in the hidden Connecticut town.
One day a courier had come to the alarm-post.
“Are the ways guarded?” he asked. “There is a plot to capture Washington if he makes a progress to meet Rochambeau.”
“Let us go to the war office and consider the matter,” said the Governor.
“If the matter is serious, I will bring it before the Committee of Safety.”
They considered the matter. The Governor was alarmed, and he said to Peter:
“Leave the store and go back to your post on the by-road.”
The danger at this time is thus treated in Sparks’s Life of Trumbull:
“Intelligence had come from New York that three hundred horsemen had crossed over to Long Island and proceeded eastward, and that boats at the same time had been sent up the Sound. It was inferred that the party would pass from Long Island to Connecticut and attempt to intercept General Washington on his way to Newport, as it was supposed his intended journey was known to the enemy. Lafayette suggested that the Duke de Lauzun should be informed of this movement as soon as possible, that he might be prepared with his cavalry, then stationed at Lebanon, to repel the invaders.”
There had landed at Newport with Rochambeau a most brilliant French officer of cavalry, who was destined to become the general-in-chief of the Army of the Rhine, and to lose his head in the French Revolution. It was the Duke de Lauzun, born in Paris, 1747. He commanded a force known as Lauzun’s Legion, which consisted of some six hundred Hussars, with the French enthusiasm for liberty. They were well equipped, wore brilliant uniforms, and bore the banners of heroes.
The alarm-post became the seat of numerous orders; the roads were dusty with hurrying feet.
The people met on the green as soon as the bugles were heard.
Peter was there. He heard the bugles ring out, and cried:
“Auvergne! They are the bugles of Auvergne!”
Dennis listened as the air rung merrily.
“Yes, Peter, those are the bugles of Auvergne.”
Faith Trumbull came out and stood on the green beside Peter.
“Do you think those are the French bugles?” she asked. “If so, the cause is saved.”
An advance horseman, a Hussar, came riding up the hill. The bugles blew behind him, now near to the town.
“The Duke is at hand,” said he in French.
The people sank upon their knees.
The Governor heard and stood like a statue on the green.
“They are coming!” he said. “They are on the way of victory!”
Six hundred horsemen, glittering in insignia, banners, and trappings, swept into the town, and their dashing leader, the Duke de Lauzun, threw up his hand and took off his hat before the war office. No one had ever dreamed of a scene like that.
The people gathered around him uncovered. The farmers shouted. Children danced in the natural way; old men wept.
Dennis approached a French officer who could speak English.
“An’ have you been blowing the bugles of Auvergne?” asked he, hat in hand.
“You may well call them so,” said the courtly officer. “The bugles of Auvergne are the heralds of victory!”
“The cause of liberty in America is won,” said Dennis. “Lafayette said it would be so when the French bugles should blow.”
Peter fell down on the green and wept like a child, saying, over and over: “The bugles of Auvergne! The bugles of Auvergne!”
It was a glorious day. The very earth seemed to be glad.
The Hussars sat for a time on their restless horses, surveying a scene unusual to their eyes. That simple church was not Notre Dame; the Governor’s house was not the Tuileries, nor Versailles, nor Marley, nor Saint Cloud. The green was not the Saint Cloud garden, the people were not courtiers. Yet their hearts glowed. They saluted the simple Governor.
Then the bugles blew again—the bugles of Auvergne, and a great sound rent the air.
The Hussars went to the fields for quarters, and the Duke followed the Governor into the war office to “consider.”
Washington came to Connecticut in safety. He reviewed the army on Lebanon green and at Hartford. Near Hartford he planned the campaign in Virginia that was to end the war.