Chapter IV: The Mischianza

WE must now go back to the month of June, 1778. The winter just passed had been one of the darkest of the war to the Americans. Their little army, encamped at Valley Forge, had suffered for want of every necessary of life, notwithstanding the efforts made all over the country to relieve them. It was some comfort to the poor fellows that Washington and his wife lived with them and shared their perils and distresses. The Indians were out all along the frontier, and with them were leagued Tories and renegade whites more savage than themselves. There were divisions among the Americans themselves, and a cabal was formed for the avowed object of ruining the commander-in-chief. It was a dark and gloomy time.

The English, on the contrary, were having very comfortable times. Lord Howe had possession of Philadelphia, and his officers were passing a very jolly winter, getting up balls and parties without number, flirting with the fair daughters of their Tory friends, and too often outraging all decency in their frolics and the company they kept. Howe had gained full command of the Delaware not without some trouble and loss. His forces had been repulsed at Fort Mercer, and he had lost a gallant officer, Count Donop, commander of the Hessian forces. The poor young man was saved from lingering misery by one of the French officers to die in the midst of kindly care, as he said, "the victim of his own ambition and the avarice of his sovereign." Still, Howe had succeeded at last, and the river was his, so that the British ships came and went at pleasure.

In May, Sir William Howe resigned his place, and was succeeded by Sir Henry Clinton. It was on this occasion, and by way of doing honour to the departing general, that certain officers got up the notable scheme of the "Mischianza," a kind of tournament, followed by a grand ball and supper. There were seven knights of the "Blended Rose,"—whatever that might be—and seven of the "Burning Mountain," and ladies dressed in Turkish costume, and black servants with velvet tunics and silver armlets, and a triumphal arch with a figure of Fame blowing from her trumpet the words, "Thy laurels are immortal," and a great deal of other parade and display.

The unlucky Major André was one of the chief promoters of this grand performance, and wrote a glowing description of the same to a friend in England, which was published in the "Annual Register," where it may still be read by the curious, and which provoked some satirical comments. It was thought that a general who, with nineteen thousand disciplined men and abundant material resources, had allowed himself to be cooped up in Philadelphia and kept in a state of siege by a handful, as it were, of ragged, barefooted, half-starved, and half-disciplined troops, * need not have so readily accepted such a dish of adulation or swallowed it with such a grave face. The same feeling was shared by some of his own men.

* Howe seems greatly to have overrated the strength of Washington's
army. See "Annual Register."

It was the afternoon before the grand pageant was to take place. Some iron-work was needed which required a more skilful hand than that of an ordinary workman. Caspar Reinhart, blacksmith to one of the Hessian regiments, was known to be a most accomplished smith, and to possess a good deal of skill in ornamental work, and Major André applied to his colonel to borrow him for the occasion.

"Oh yes, you can have him, of course, and he vill do your vork vell—dere is no doubt of dat," said the good-natured German. "Reinhart is as goot a smit as is in de army."

"And you, colonel—will you grace our festival to-morrow? It will be a fine sight, I can tell you."

"It will be a — of a sight, to my mind," said Colonel von Falkenstein, using a German adjective neither elegant nor complimentary. "We haf been fooling away time all dis vinter, and now ve are fooling away money; dat is shoost the truth, Major André. De Yankees will make demselves fun for us, and vith goot reason; and old Steuben—yes, I know what he will say. No, I shall not go to see your pasteboard knights and painted ladies. I shall stay at home and write to mine frau—my wife—for I believe we shall move from here before long."

"But you will let me have the smith?" said André, who had no mind to quarrel with the old soldier.

"Oh yes, to pe sure you can haf the smit, and a goot workman he is, and a goot soldier, though he will never speak one word he can help. But he can speak English shust so goot as I myself can."

"That leaves nothing to be desired," said Major André, gravely. "But I must hasten back to my work."

"Very goot; I will send Reinhart after you."

And thus it happened that Caspar Reinhart was engaged on some of the ornamental wirework of the tilt-yard, as it was called. Colonel von Falkenstein had not over-praised him when he called him a good soldier, though a very silent one, and an admirable workman.

Caspar listened to the instructions of the major, now and then suggesting a slight improvement or respectfully pointing out a difficulty. He then informed Major André that he should want such-and-such things—an anvil and forge and a man to help him.

"How very well you speak English!" said Major André.

"I have taken pains to learn it," was the answer.

"You would do famously on secret service," said the major, struck with a sudden thought. "Nobody would know you from one of the Germans born in the country. You would make a capital spy."

Caspar made no answer to this remark, which was not to his taste, if one might judge by the sudden darkening of his brow, but set himself at once to work moving things out of his way and preparing for his undertaking. It was not long before one of the portable army-forges was set up, the charcoal furnished, and the fire kindled, but an assistant seemed to be lacking.

"Here is a man to serve your turn, Reinhart," said Major André, presently reappearing with a tall, somewhat countryfied-looking man, whose broad-brimmed hat and butternut-coloured clothes seemed to mark him for one of the Society of Friends. "Nathan here understands your trade.—Did you say your name was Nathan or Nathaniel, my Quaker friend?"

"Neither, friend," answered the new comer, quietly. "My name is Jonathan Elmer; and having come to this place about my own business, I have no objection to earn an honest penny before I leave it. Neither am I a Friend or Quaker, as thee calls them, but my wife's folks are of that persuasion, and I have caught their ways."

"And pray what was your business, Master Jonathan Elmer, if I may make so bold as to inquire," said André, somewhat suspiciously; "and how did you come hither without a pass?"

"My business here is to look after a debtor who I have reason to think means to run away," answered Jonathan, with the same calmness. "As to my pass, I have shown it to thy commanding officer, and will do the same for thee if thou wilt, taking the freedom at the same time to observe that the fire is wasting and this friend who has thy work in charge is growing impatient."

"And that is true," said Major André. "Go about your work, and you shall be well paid, both of you."

The two smiths went to work with a will, and Caspar found his new acquaintance an intelligent assistant, though he talked as much as he worked and asked a great many questions—so many that Caspar's suspicions began to be aroused.

"What does thee mean to do when this war is over?" asked Jonathan Elmer as the two together were fixing in its place a bit of iron railing.

"Go home to my family, if they will let me," answered Caspar, shortly.

"I have heard that many of the Hessians did not come of their own accord?"

"Very few of them did.—Take care; that beam is loose."

"And I have heard that a great many of them have deserted. Is that true?"

"So they say."

"And is it true that there is talk of evacuating Philadelphia?"

"You ask too many questions, comrade," said Caspar, but not unkindly, for something in the young man's manner drew him toward the stranger in spite of himself. "You will be in trouble if any one hears you."

"Thank thee for the caution," said Elmer. "It is indeed not wise to give way to unrestrained curiosity, and for my wife's sake as well as my own, I should not like to get into trouble."

"Then you have a wife?" asked Caspar.

"Yes, indeed—as fair and good as lives—and three promising children, though I say it that shouldn't. And you—There! I beg your pardon," said Jonathan Elmer. "I see I have touched a sore spot. Pray forgive me."

"There needs no forgiveness," answered Caspar, choking down his emotion. "I left a wife and four children at home without even a leave-taking."

"You did not desert them, surely?"

"Heaven forbid! but I was carried away without the chance of speaking a word to my family.—Is that firm, think you? I am not sure of it."

"As firm as it can be made with the stupid work of these British carpenters. 'Tis a wonder if the whole is not down when any weight comes on it. Take care!"

As he spoke, the whole ornamental work of the screen on which they were engaged cracked and fell with a tremendous crash. A large beam fell just where Caspar had been standing, and but for his companion's quick sight and sudden action in drawing him away would have crushed him to the earth. Some of the light lattice-work grazed his cheek as it was.

"You have saved my life," said Caspar as soon as he could speak for the lime-dust which filled his mouth and eyes. "But what—"

"Hush! Hush!" said his companion, hastily readjusting the hat and wig, which had been displaced and showed underneath fair hair and a skin unstained by butternut juice. "Are you hurt?"

"No; thanks to your wit and strong arm, am safe. And you?"

"Not a bit, not a bit!" answered Captain Elmer. "But it was an unlucky thing for me. My life is in your hands, Friend Reinhart; will you sell it?"

"What do you take me for?" asked Caspar, indignantly. "Am I a dog of Tory?"

"No, truly; but we of the Jerseys have little reason to love or trust the Hessians. Well, do what you will; 'tis but the fortune of war."

"Hush!" said Caspar, imperatively. "Here comes the English major. You have been hurt by the beam, and can hardly stand; do you comprehend?"

"Yes, yes! But you. Don't let me get you into trouble!"

"Hush!" said Caspar, again.

And at that moment, Major André made his appearance on the scene.

"What is the matter? Oh, I see. I told Barne the screen would never stand. Was any one hurt? What! You, my good fellow?"

"Not much," answered the pretended blacksmith, setting his teeth as in pain—"only my shin; but it aches for the minute, and I don't believe I am good for much more work this afternoon."

"We can do no more, at any rate, till the screen is set up again," remarked Caspar.

"Very well; there will be time to finish in the morning. Be on hand bright and early. There is a guinea for you, Friend Jonathan, to buy a plaister. You are a likely fellow, too. Suppose you enlist, take the king's money, and help to drive the Yankees out of Pennsylvania?"

"I should make but a poor hand at thy carnal weapons of warfare, friend," answered Jonathan Elmer, coolly pocketing the money. "Thank thee for thy proffer, all the same."

"I say! Where do you lodge, in case I want you again?" said Major André.

"At the sign of the Fast Horse, in Second street," answered Jonathan.

"Very good; I shall know where to find you. I must hunt up my precious carpenters and make them do their work over again."

"Now he is gone, you had better be going too," said Caspar.

"I am entirely of your opinion," answered Captain Elmer. "If I saved your life, you have spared mine, so we are fairly even, since you might have betrayed me to yonder prince of popinjays with a word. Should you ever be in straits within the American lines, ask for Jonathan Elmer. And here: take this for a keepsake."

"What will you do?" asked Caspar, mechanically holding the watch which Captain Elmer put into his hands.

"Well enough, never fear. I have friends enough in town, and I know every creek on the Delaware. Farewell! I see our fine major coming this way again."

Jonathan Elmer limped deliberately away till he had turned the corner, when he exchanged his limp for a rapid walk, turned the corner of a narrow alley leading to the water, and was out of sight in an instant.