It was past midsummer—the shadow of change was in the year. The birds were gathering in flocks in the rowened meadows, and the woods were displaying their purple grapes and first red leaves.
Rochambeau had been receiving the hospitalities of the Governor, and had also received lessons in the new school of liberty from Faith Robinson Trumbull, the wife of the Governor. The hero of Minden had come to see this grand woman, and wished to make her a present before he marched on to join the army of Washington against Clinton, with his six thousand heroes.
What should his present to this noble woman be?
He had among his effects a scarlet cloak. It was suitable for a woman or for a man. It covered the whole form, and made the wearer conspicuous, for it was made of fine fabric, and represented the habit of the battle-field.
He took the cloak out of his treasures one evening and came down into the public room of the forest inn, where some of the French officers of the regiment of Auvergne sans tache were seated in a merry mood before the newly kindled fire.
He held up the scarlet cloak. “Here,” said he, “is a garment to be worn after the war for liberty is over. A field-marshal might wear it after the day of victory. This war will soon end; I am going to present this cloak to one of the most patriotic souls that I have ever met. Who do you think it is?”
“The Governor,” said an officer, a colonel; “Washington’s own ‘Brother Jonathan.’ He has made himself poor by the war, but has been the inspiration of every battle-field, so they say. Well, you do well to honor the rustic Governor. The world is richer for him. That is a good thought, General. You honor the soldiers of Auvergne sans tache.”
The General, the hero of Lafeldt, held up the cloak before the cooling summer fire. A soldier turned a burning stick with iron tongs, and flames with sparks like a little volcano shot up and threw a red gleam on the scarlet cloak with its gold thread.
“You have made a wrong guess, Colonel,” said Rochambeau. “This cloak is for Madam Faith Trumbull, who has the blood of Robinson of Leyden in her veins, and who is the very spirit of liberty.”