Did they think I cared then to see officers stand 5. Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright, That your red hands turn over towards this dim light These dead men that stare so? Ah, if you had kept comrades had left, Your senses this morning ere his You had heard that his place was worst of them allNot mid the stragglers-where he fought he would fall! 6. There's the moon through the clouds: Oh! Christ, what a scene! Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean Torn, dripping with gore-Pah! they died for this rag! 7. Here's the voice that we seek-Poor soul, do not start: We're women, not ghosts.-What a gash o'er the heart! Is there aught we can do? a message to give To any beloved one? I swear, if I live To take it for sake of the words my boy said, "Home," "mother," "wife "—ere he reeled down 'mong the dead! 8. But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood? Is choking his voice! what a look of despair! 9. He's dying—he's dead!-close his lids-let us go. 10. He's not here—and not here !-What wild hopes flash through My thoughts as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew, Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah! what face doth lie O God, my brain reels!-'Tis a dream! My old sight 11. Is dimmed with these horrors--My son! oh, my son! Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast 12. HE WAS YOURS, TOO; HE LOVED YOU? Yes, yes, you're right! Forgive me, my daughter: I'm maddened to-night! Don't moan so, dear child: you're young, and your years May still hold fair hopes-but the old die of tears! Yes, take him again! ah !—don't lay your face there! See, the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair. 13. How quiet you are!-Has she fainted?-her cheek Is cold as his own.-Say a word to me,-speak! Am I crazed?-Is she dead?-Has her heart broke first? Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst! I'm afraid! I'm afraid! alone with these dead!— 14. I'll sit by my children until the men come LIV.—EXECUTION OF MAJOR ANDRÉ. BY ALEXANDER HAMILTON. 1. Never, perhaps, did any man suffer death with more justice, or deserve it less. The first step he took after his capture, was to write a letter to General Washington, conceived in terms of dignity without insolence, and apology without meanness. The scope of it was to vindicate himself from the imputation of having assumed a mean character, for treacherous or interested purposes; asserting that he had been involuntarily an impostor; that contrary to his intention, which was to meet a person for intelligence on neutral ground, he had been betrayed within our posts, and forced into the vile condition of an enemy in disguise; soliciting only that to whatever rigor policy might devote him, a decency of treatment might be observed due to a person who, though unfortunate, had been guilty of nothing dishonorable. 2. His request was granted in its full extent; for in the whole progress of the affair, he was treated with the most scrupulous delicacy. When brought before the board of officers, he met with every mark of indulgence, and was required to answer no interrogatory which would even embarrass his feelings. On his part, while he carefully concealed every thing that might implicate others, he frankly confessed all the facts relating to himself, and upon his confession, without the trouble of examining a witness, the board made their report. The members were not more impressed with the candor and firmness mixed with a becoming sensibility which he displayed, than he was penetrated with their liberality and politeness. He acknowledged the generosity of the behavior towards him in every respect, but particularly in this, in the strongest terms of manly gratitude. In a conversation with a gentleman who visited him after his trial, he said, he flattered himself he had never been illiberal; but if there were any remains of prejudice in his mind, his present experience must obliterate them. 3. In one of the visits I made to him (and I saw him several times during his confinement), he begged me to be the bearer of a request to the General, for permission to send an open letter to Sir Henry Clinton. "I foresee my fate," said he, "and though I pretend not to play the hero, or to be indifferent about life, yet I am reconciled to whatever may happen, conscious that misfortune, not guilt, has brought it upon me. There is only one thing that disturbs my tranquillity. Sir Henry Clinton has been too good to me; he has been lavish of his kindness; I am bound to him by too many obligations, and love him too well to bear the thought that he should reproach himself, or others should reproach him, on the supposition of my having conceived myself obliged, by his instructions, to run the risk I did. I would not, for the world, leave a sting in his mind that should embitter his future days." 4. He could scarce finish the sentence, bursting into tears, in spite of his efforts to suppress them, and with difficulty collecting himself enough afterwards to add, "I wish to be permitted to assure him, I did not act under this impression, but submitted to a necessity imposed upon me, as contrary to my own inclinations, as to his orders." His request was readily complied with, and he wrote a letter, with which I dare say you will be as much pleased as I am, both for the sentiment and diction. 5. When his sentence was announced to him, he remarked, that since it was his lot to die, there was still a choice in the mode, which would make a material difference to his feelings; and he would be happy, if possible, to be indulged with a professional death. * He made a second application by letter, in concise but persuasive terms. It was thought that this indulgence, being incompatible with the customs of war, could not be granted; and it was, therefore, determined, in both cases, to evade an answer, to spare him the sensations, which a certain knowledge of the intended mode would inflict. 6. In going to the place of execution, he bowed familiarly as he went along, to all those with whom he had been acquainted in his confinement. A smile of complacency expressed the serene fortitude of his mind. Arrived at the *By martial law a spy must suffer the ignominy of the gallows. André's petition was that he might be shot. fatal spot, he asked with some emotion, “Must I then die in this manner?" He was told it had been unavoidable. “I am reconciled to my fate," said he, "but not to the mode." Soon, however, recollecting himself, he added, "It will be but a momentary pang;" and springing upon the cart, performed the last offices to himself, with a composure that excited the admiration and melted the hearts of the beholders. Upon being told the final moment was at hand, and asked if he had any thing to say, he answered, "Nothing, but to request you will witness to the world, that I die like a brave man." Among the extraordinary circumstances that attended him, in the midst of his cnemies he died universally regretted, and universally esteemed. 7. There was something singularly interesting in the character and fortunes of André. To an excellent understanding, well improved by education and travel, he united a peculiar elegance of mind and manners, and the advantage of a pleasing person. It is said, he possessed a pretty taste for the fine arts, and had himself attained scme proficiency in poetry, music, and painting. His knowledge appeared without ostentation, and embellished by a diffidence that rarely accompanies so many talents and accomplishments, which left you to suppose more than appeared. 8. His sentiments were elevated, and inspired esteem; they had a softness that conciliated affection. His elocution was handsome; his address easy, polite, and insinuating. By his merit, he had acquired the unlimited confidence of his general, and was making a rapid progress in military rank and reputation. But in the height of his career, flushed with new hopes from the execution of a project the most beneficial to his party that could be devised, he was at once precipitated from the summit of prosperity, and saw all the expec tations of his ambition blasted, and himself ruined. 9. The character I have given of him, is drawn partly from what I saw of him myself, and partly from information. I am aware, that a man of real merit is never seen in so favorable a light as through the medium of adversity. The clouds that surround him are shades that set off his good qualities. Misfortune cuts down the little vanities, that in prosperous times serve as so many spots in his virtues, and 9* |