“Nay, sir, we cannot drink to one of the King's enemies,” said Mrs. Abington, rising. “'Twere scandalous, indeed, to do so in this place; and, sir, you still wear the King's uniform.”
“The devil take the King's uniform!” shouted the man. “The devils of rebels are taking a good many coats of that uniform, and let me tell you, madam, that—nay, you must not leave the table until the toast is drank——” Mrs. Abington having risen, had walked across the room and seated herself on the chair over which Captain Jackson had flung his cloak.
“Hold, sir,” cried Goldsmith, dropping his knife and fork with a clatter upon his plate that made the other man give a little jump. “Hold, sir, I perceive that you are on the side of freedom, and I would feel honoured by your permission to drink the toast that you propose. Here's success to the cause that will triumph in America.” Jackson, who was standing at the table with his glass in his hand, stared at him with the smile of a half-intoxicated man. He had just enough intelligence remaining to make him aware that there was something ambiguous in Goldsmith's toast.
“It sounds all right,” he muttered as if he were trying to convince himself that his suspicions of ambiguity were groundless. “It sounds all right, and yet, strike me dizzy! if it wouldn't work both ways! Ha, my little poet,” he continued. “I'm glad to see that you are a man. Drink, sir—drink to the success of the cause in America.” Goldsmith got upon his feet and raised his glass—it contained only a light wine.
“Success to it!” he cried, and he watched Captain Jackson drain his third tumbler of brandy.
“Hark ye, my little poet!” whispered the latter very huskily, lurching across the table, and failing to notice that his hostess had not returned to her place. “Hark ye, sir! Cornwallis thought himself a general of generals. He thought when he courtmartialled me and turned me out of the regiment, sending me back to England in a foul hulk from Boston port, that he had got rid of me. He'll find out that he was mistaken, sir, and that one of these days——Mum's the word, mind you! If you open your lips to any human being about this, I'll cut you to pieces. I'll flay you alive! Washington is no better than Cornwallis, let me tell you. What message did he send me when he heard that I was ready to blow Cornwallis's brains out and march my company across the Potomac? I ask you, sir, man to man—though a poet isn't quite a man—but that's my generosity. Said Washy—Washy—Wishy—Washy—— Washington: 'Cornwallis's brains have been such valuable allies to the colonists, Colonel Washington would regard as his enemy any man who would make the attempt to curtail their capacity for blundering.' That's the message I got from Washington, curse him! But the Colonel isn't everybody. Mark me, my friend—whatever your name is—I've got letters—letters——”
“Yes, yes, you have letters—where?” cried Goldsmith, in the confidential whisper that the other had assumed.
The man who was leaning across the table stared at him hazily, and then across his face there came the cunning look of the more than half-intoxicated. He straightened himself as well as he could in his chair, and then swayed limply backward and forward, laughing.
“Letters—oh, yes—plenty of letters—but where?—where?—that's my own matter—a secret,” he murmured in vague tones. “The government would give a guinea or two for my letters—one of them came from Mount Vernon itself, Mr.—whatever your name maybe—and if you went to Mr. Secretary and said to him, 'Mr. Secretary'”—he pronounced the word “Secrary”—“'I know that Dick Jackson is a rebel,' and Mr. Secretary says, 'Where are the letters to prove it?' where would you be, my clever friend? No, sir, my brains are not like Cornwallis's, drunk or sober. Hallo, where's the lady?”
He seemed suddenly to recollect where he was. He straightened himself as well as he could, and looked sleepily across the room.