Harriet was very beautiful as she made her plea, her unusual humility lending softness to the customary hauteur of her manner. A perplexed look crossed the general’s countenance at her words. He bent toward her courteously.
“Unravel the matter, I beg of you,” he said more gently. “Do I understand that something hath gone amiss for which you are entreating lenity?”
“It is not for myself, sir. My cousins here can bear witness that I came within your lines for the sole purpose of seeing my brother.” She raised her head proudly, and met his glance with unwavering eyes. “He was at Lancaster. At Lancaster, where he hath been chosen as the most unfortunate victim of retaliation. It is for him I plead.”
“Your brother?” For the merest second a gleam of astonishment shone on his face. It faded, leaving his countenance as impassive as ever. He turned to the table, and picked up a folded document from among the many lying upon it.
Hastily he scanned the page, then looked up. “’Tis as I thought,” he said. “Brigadier-General Hazen hath reported concerning that matter, and the young man herein named is not your brother, Miss Harriet. On the contrary, ’tis one Captain Wilson Williams who hath been the unfortunate selected to pay the penalty.”
“And Captain Williams is my brother, sir. My brother, Clifford Owen, who because father did not wish him to go into the service enlisted under another name. My brother, and he hath been chosen to die shamefully because another hath committed a dastardly crime. Sir, in the name of that mother whose son you are, I entreat you to have mercy upon him who is an only son, an only brother——”
“And a mother in New Jersey mourns an only son, and she a widow,” he interrupted, his voice implacable in its sternness. “Miss Harriet, I lament the cruel necessity which alone can induce so distressing a measure. It is my desire not only to soften the inevitable calamities of war, but even to introduce on every occasion as great a share of tenderness and humanity as can possibly be exercised in a state of hostility. But for the barbarous and inhuman murder of Captain Johnson there must be satisfaction.”
“And will it give satisfaction to wreak vengeance upon an innocent person?” she cried stung to bitterness. The grim countenance of the general was not encouraging. His eyes seemed to pierce her as with cold steel. “Is it not as barbarous, as inhuman to execute one who is as guiltless as yourself in the matter? You, sir, are dealing ruthlessly when you visit such penalty upon a victim. It shows want of humanity.”
“I am listening to you, Miss Harriet,” he said patiently, “because you are grieved and anguished over the affair. I know that you are much overwrought. Therefore will I explain to you that by all the usages of war, and upon the principle of retaliation I should have been justified in executing an officer of equal rank with Captain Johnson immediately upon receiving proofs of his death, and then informing the British commander of what I had done.”
“You are so stern,” she cried with growing excitement. “So stern! So unfeeling!”