Chapter XIX: Carl Lody and Spies of the World’s Greatest War 309 (5)

“Had Bonaparte and his staff been sent here by Sir Sydney Smith, they could not have excited more curiosity than Tandy and his companions. A vast concourse of people gathered at the landing place and followed the prisoners and their escort to the garrison gates where a new guard was assembled; and so from stage to stage to the end of the journey everybody, old and young, male and female, was anxious to get a peep at this wonderful man now become, from the hope and perverseness of Ministers, a new bone of contention among the Powers of Europe.

“Napper Tandy is a large, big-boned, muscular man, much broken and emaciated. His hair is quite white from age, cut close behind into his neck, and he appears much enervated. This is indeed very natural if it be considered that he is nearly seventy years of age and has just suffered a long and rigorous confinement, his mind a constant prey of the most painful suspense. He wore a large friar’s hat, a long silk black greatcoat and military boots, which had a very ‘_outre_’ effect.

“Of Blackwell and Morres, the latter seemed to be five and thirty. They are two tall, handsome looking men. They wore military dress and had a very soldier like appearance. The first named is a man of very enterprising genius, about the middle size and apparently not more than four or five and twenty, and has the look of a foreigner.”

Eventually Tandy and his companions were removed to Ireland and were placed at the bar of the King’s Bench, when the Attorney General prayed that sentence of death should be passed upon them. The case was argued for several days and finally Lord Kilwarden ruled that Tandy should be discharged. But he was scarcely given his liberty when he was again arrested in the district where, two years before, he had made a hostile descent from France. He lay in the jail there for seven months, during which time great efforts were made to insure the conviction of what was regarded as a very dangerous character.

Tandy, finding the evidence against him overwhelming, admitted the truth of the indictment and was sentenced to die on the 4th of the following May. Meanwhile Napoleon, on his return from Egypt, claimed Tandy as a French general and held an English prisoner of equal rank a hostage for his safety. At this stage of the historic affair it was not quite so clear that the English had a legal claim to the life of a man who wore the uniform of a French general and who had been arrested under such peculiar circumstances. A pardon was eventually made out for him on condition of banishment to Botany Bay. He indignantly refused it, but was finally induced to accept it on the ground that all that was required was merely the name of transportation, and that if he pleased, it might appear to the world as if he had made his escape at sea.

Napper Tandy arrived at Bordeaux on the 14th of March, 1802, where he was received with military honors. Bordeaux was illuminated and the old rebel was promoted to the rank of a general of division. In the midst of his vindication, as he termed it, he read with real horror a speech of Pelham’s in Parliament saying that he owed his life to the useful information and discoveries he had given to the British Government. Instantly he addressed a letter to Pelham branding the statement as audacious and false. Mr. Elliott repeated in Parliament the taunt cast by Pelham, and spoke of Tandy’s ignorance and insignificant birth. Tandy immediately challenged him to a duel, saying: “A French officer must not be insulted with impunity, and you, as well as the country which gave me birth and that which has adopted me, shall find that I will preserve the honor of my station.”

When eight weeks had elapsed and Elliott had failed to reply, Tandy at once proclaimed him “A calumniator, liar and poltroon.”

The most curious part of the whole business is that General Tandy never knew that he had been betrayed by a spy who was serving under him as an aide-de-camp. His private character was as clean as a hound’s tooth, a fact that led one of his friends to say that “it furnished no ground to doubt the integrity of his public one.”

But his experiences in and out of prison undermined his health, and after a lingering illness, he died at Bordeaux in 1803. By one of the curious decrees of destiny George Orr, the spy, lived and prospered long after Tandy’s death, and, if rumor be correct, managed to accumulate not only English but French gold!

XII

HOW MONSIEUR DE MEINAU HELPED TO MAKE JEROME BONAPARTE KING OF WESTPHALIA

Among all of the world’s famous impostors it is doubtful if any could hold a candle to Monsieur de Meinau. Monsieur did not always have such a dignified name. Originally, it will be recalled, he was an Alsatian smuggler and had the plain every-day appellation of Schulmeister. But as Napoleon’s chief spy his rise to fame and fortune was both sure and sudden. He was lavishly rewarded by the Man of Destiny. Indeed, his appointment as Chief of Police of Vienna was a fortune in itself and a fair return for the services he had rendered, and the dangers he had braved as the secret agent of Napoleon.

But Napoleon was not yet satisfied. He wished to be the King of Kings and to reconstruct Germany, Italy and the Netherlands. His ambition was to rule over an empire that should be encircled and guarded by a belt of dependent thrones. In pursuance of this policy he seized Naples and made his brother Joseph its king. After that he converted the Republic of the Netherlands into a monarchy, and placed his brother Louis at its head with the title of the King of Holland.

In the meantime he needed more information concerning the power and the plans of those who were opposed to his designs. At this stage of events he once more sent for his trusted spy, Schulmeister. He had made him Monsieur de Meinau, with both the title and the estates that went with it. But the new Monsieur knew his imperial patron well enough to understand that he could not rest on his laurels. With Napoleon incessant activity was the price of favor.

As the result of the interview with the Emperor Monsieur left Vienna with letters of introduction to the Austrian officers at Oedenburg. This was in west Hungary, about thirty-seven miles from the Austrian capitol. Here he learned that the Archduke Charles and Ferdinand had combined forces the day before and were preparing for a united attack on the French troops. This information was exceedingly important and he never rested until he had forwarded it to Napoleon.

After that he felt entitled to a little relaxation and he joined the Austrian officers in the gayeties of camp life. He had been hospitably received on his arrival and now was royally entertained by his new found friends. His scarred forehead and his severe military manner impressed them. Add to this the fact that he was supposed to have undergone great privations and dangers as an officer of the Austrian Secret Service and it will not be difficult to understand why the soldiers insisted upon placing a halo of romance around his head. A dinner was given in his honor and on this occasion the rascal actually entertained his hosts with stories of some of his thrilling adventures in the service of the Fatherland. His methods were simple enough. He related real exploits, merely picturing himself as an Austrian secret agent instead of a spy of Napoleon. His narratives were received with applause and manifestations of delight.

The Austrians had been at Oedenburg for some time and the pleasures of camp life were beginning to affect the discipline of the men. Schulmeister, or rather Monsieur de Meinau, was ordinarily a person of abstemious habits, but he could be a jolly good fellow when the occasion demanded it, and this, you may be sure, was one of the occasions. The flowing bowl was passed around so often that it was in grave danger of flowing over. The more wine the officers drank the greater became their affection for the spy. They literally threw themselves around his neck, which was quite a generous thing to do when we consider that under the military customs of the time they would have been justified in placing a rope around that same neck. But there was one man at the banqueting board who was a death’s head at the feast. Lieutenant Bernstein looked and felt unhappy. He did not share the confidence of his comrades in Monsieur de Meinau. In fact, he frankly regarded him as a fraud. So he sat there eating little and drinking less and wondering how he could bring the spy to grief.

His opportunity came sooner than he expected. Monsieur de Meinau, having reduced his hosts to a state of semi-intoxication, hastened out to send further information to Napoleon. With his usual cleverness he had established a chain of communication between Oedenburg and Vienna. He had his own sub-spies within and without the lines of the enemy, and thus had a method of forwarding his dispatches which would have been envied by modern news associations in times of war. But on this one occasion he reckoned without his host—or at least this particular host. Bernstein was at his very heels, and when he saw him pass the slips of paper into the hands of a confederate, felt that it was time for some one to interfere. Consequently when Monsieur de Meinau returned to the banqueting board Bernstein pointed an accusing finger in his direction and exclaimed:

“I denounce that man as a spy!”

There was a loud shout of laughter at this and the man nearest to him punched the accuser in the ribs.

“Why, old man, there’s nothing startling in that. We know that he is a spy.”

Monsieur de Meinau folded his arms and looked the lieutenant in the eye.

“The comrade is trying to have a jest at my expense. Gentlemen, you all know that I am a spy. I have told you myself. Perhaps it was an indiscretion, but—”

“No! No!” cried Bernstein, excitedly. “Not that kind of a spy. I say that he is a spy against Austria. He has been in communication with the French troops. I caught him in the act of sending messages through the lines.”

Silence fell upon the group of officers surrounding the two men. The force of the accusation was startling—so startling that it sobered them at once. A bucket of water thrown into each of their faces would not have been half so shocking. All of them turned to Monsieur de Meinau. His face was pale, but he did not lose his composure. He was ready for whatever might happen. The chief officer cried sternly:

“What have you to say to this?”

Monsieur de Meinau’s arms were still folded in the way in which he had often seen Napoleon fold his arms.

“Gentlemen,” he said with dignity, “I have been grossly insulted, and under the circumstances I can only do one thing—I demand an instant investigation of the accusation against me. I insist upon a trial—a court martial, if you will.”

The audacity of this request had the expected result. It disarmed suspicion at the outset. And his insistence upon a trial only served to strengthen him in the minds of the officers. He was given a trial, but it was largely a perfunctory affair. The lieutenant who made the accusation was, of course, unable to prove his charge. The only witnesses against Schulmeister had fled, and he was triumphantly acquitted. He displayed numerous letters, some real and others forged, to prove that he was a patriot working in the Austrian Secret Service. General Wilhing, who presided over the trial, was profuse in his apologies and insisted upon giving him a letter to the Archduke Charles who was then at Koermoend.

Monsieur de Meinau proceeded gayly on his way to the headquarters of the Archduke, arriving with his letters and his never-failing audacity. His Austrian uniform, of course, was an immense asset, which he did not fail to utilize to the fullest extent. He was not only in the confidence of the Austrians, but also in the position of being a “vindicated” man. Thereafter no one could have the temerity to point the finger of suspicion in his direction. Any charge they might make would have the appearance of being a stale and exploded slander. The most important thing for him now was not to be caught in the commission of any overt act.

Most military spies come to grief by having dispatches and documents on their person. Monsieur de Meinau knew this, and he made it his business to get rid of incriminating documents at the earliest possible moment. But yet there were times when papers and documents were his chief stock in trade. He was cordially received at Koermoend and was taken to the Archduke Charles by a member of that General’s staff. The nobleman greeted the newcomer kindly and asked him for information regarding the enemy. Monsieur de Meinau having just come from Vienna via Oedenburg was able to give the Archduke some very interesting news. The fact that the greater part of it was the product of his vivid imagination did not make it any the less thrilling. As a consequence of this the Archduke regarded him with unusual favor.

This fact was not lost on the lesser lights of the camp at Koermoend. The chief-of-staff of the Archduke conceived that one who was so highly regarded by his superior was entitled to special attention at his hand. So he invited him to be his guest during his brief stay at the headquarters of the Archduke. Schulmeister—to give him his old name for the moment—accepted cheerfully, but reminded his host that he was a very busy man and that he might be compelled at any moment to leave him abruptly and without notice. This was the solemn truth, but, of course, the humor of it was lost on the chief-of-staff.

Now the General had his headquarters in a roomy frame building not far from that of the Archduke. His office was in a large apartment on the first floor. Here he kept all of his papers and military correspondence. Monsieur de Meinau—to get back to his formal designation—made note of all this and was quick to see where the soldier placed the keys of the place. For some days now he followed a policy of watchful waiting. He was a persistent man, but also a patient one. He felt sure that his opportunity would come—and it did.

One morning the Archduke decided to make an inspection of his troops. This was an all-day job and he was naturally accompanied by his chief-of-staff. When they were out of sight and hearing the spy began his operations. He had access to the house, but the desk containing the coveted papers was locked. By rare good—or bad—fortune, the General had left his bunch of keys on a hook behind the door. Monsieur de Meinau possessed himself of them and opened the desk of the absent soldier. To his delight he found a mass of most important correspondence.

He tiptoed over to the door and locked it securely. After that he pulled down the blinds and started in to read the papers. It consumed several hours and at the end of that time he had discovered many things which he felt sure were important to Napoleon. The question now was whether to steal the papers or copy them. He finally decided on the latter course. There were two reasons for this. The first was that he could accomplish his purpose without exciting any suspicion and the second that the chief-of-staff, for whom he had come to hold a certain regard, would be held blameless.

He went at his work with a will. He used a cipher of his own which was a sort of shorthand, and long before the sun went down he had filled his memorandum books with most valuable information. Just as he finished there came a loud rapping at the door. He was startled, but not seriously disturbed. He concealed his notebook, locked the desk, placed the keys where he had found them, and then hastily undressed. A couch was in the corner of the room, and he threw himself on it. In the meantime the knocking had become more pronounced. He arose and opened the door, presenting a sleepy and dishevelled appearance to the man at the door. It proved to be, as he had expected, the chief-of-staff, returned from his tour of inspection. Monsieur de Meinau was all apologies.

“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” he murmured, “but I was tired and I am a heavy sleeper.”

The General was graciousness itself.

“No excuses are necessary,” he insisted. “I regret having disturbed you. Please lie down again and take the rest I know you must need so badly.”

After that speech it might be supposed that Monsieur de Meinau would relent. But not so. He had other uses for his victim. He had supper with him and late that night asked for a safe conduct to Vienna.

“I have to go after some information and it is too late to go to the Archduke. I am sure he would give it to me but I dislike disturbing him. Perhaps it is too much to ask from you?”

The chief-of-staff gave a gracious wave of the arm which might be taken to mean that everything he had was at the disposal of the spy. He said:

“It gives me great pleasure to serve you in this matter because in doing so I know that I am serving my country.”

If Monsieur de Meinau had been capable of blushing he would have done so at that moment. But he merely sat there stolidly waiting while the General wrote the desired pass. When it was handed to him he put it in his wallet, bade his host an affectionate farewell and started off with the stolen correspondence.

He reached Vienna in safety and immediately reported to Napoleon, giving the Little Corporal not only the copies of the letters and papers, but also a great amount of verbal information. Napoleon already had his plans made for the campaign which was to end by placing his brother Jerome on the throne of Westphalia. The data given him by Monsieur de Meinau enabled him to dispose his forces still more advantageously. Also it placed the enemy at a tremendous disadvantage.

At this time there had been formed a new combination against France, consisting of England, Russia, Sweden, Saxony and Prussia. The contest began in 1806 with two thrilling battles, Jena and Auerstadt. They were fought on the same day. It was a crushing defeat for the Prussians, and Napoleon, already having possession of Vienna, now marched in triumph into Berlin. Well might he gloat over his triumph, for he had accomplished in a few hours what Austria, France and Russia had been unable to do in the Seven Years’ War of the preceding century. And within a stone’s throw of the Emperor and sharing with him the glories of this historic occasion was his faithful spy.

But the opposition, while dismayed, was not yet entirely vanquished. The Prussians gathered their scattered forces together and joining with the Russians made a final stand at Eylau. The battle there was fierce, but not decisive. A short time after this the French won the battle of Friedland, and then a treaty of peace was signed.

Napoleon gained precisely what he wanted. By the peace treaty Prussia gave up a large part of her territory. From a portion of it, lying west of the Elbe, he created the Kingdom of Westphalia. This was bestowed upon his brother Jerome, thus adding another kingdom to the group of states which he was accumulating and which—he thought in his colossal vanity—was to make him King of Kings. Monsieur de Meinau was present when Jerome was crowned, as was befitting for one who had risked his life in the cause of the king-maker.

In 1809 Monsieur de Meinau was given command of the Military Police of the French Army. From that date, although his field of Operations was increased, his personal exploits became less numerous. He did undertake one or two private missions for Napoleon, but for the most part his hours were fully occupied in directing the activities of others. That he was a busy man may be appreciated from the ceaseless labors of Napoleon. That remarkable man never rested and, needless to say, did not permit any one about him to rest. There came the seizure of the thrones of Portugal and Spain, the Peninsular War, the quarrel with the Pope, the battle of Wagram and then the divorce from Josephine and the marriage to the Princess Marie Louise. In all of these stirring events the former Alsatian smuggler played his part.

Napoleon, while a hard taskmaster, was a liberal paymaster. Time and again his spy was given large sums of money, and what was quite as good, the opportunities of making money. But there was one thing he craved, and that was the cross of the Legion of Honor. He had been a soldier as well as a spy, and felt that this entitled him to the decoration. Familiar as he had been with the Man of Destiny, the spy did not have the courage to personally ask him for this favor. He confided his wish to General Savery, his original patron, who undertook to present the case to the Emperor. The great Napoleon had ideas of his own on this point. He fully appreciated the value of the services rendered by Schulmeister but when the decoration was demanded he gave an aggressive shake of the head.

“Money as much as you like,” he cried, “but the cross—never!”

And the money poured into the outstretched hands of Monsieur de Meinau, but the decoration of the Legion of Honor remained ever beyond his reach. Presently the fortunes of Napoleon began to wane, and, appropriately enough the fortunes of his chief spy also waned. He became a comparatively poor man and went to spend the declining years of his life in the town of his birth. There Napoleon III called on him and talked of the great days that had gone before.

Some time in the forties a Parisian visiting the Alsatian village met a little old man, dressed in black, and walking about with the aid of a cane. In spite of his great age he was nattily attired and the red rose in his buttonhole betokened the spirit of youth that dwelt within him. He was amiable and very, very gentle. This man was Louis Joseph Schulmeister, afterwards Monsieur de Meinau, Napoleon’s chief spy, and the hero of a hundred thrilling escapes.

The good, it is said, die young; this amazing man lived to be eighty-two, and died in bed!

XIII

THE STRANGE MYSTERY SURROUNDING THE BETRAYAL OF CAPTAIN NATHAN HALE

Most Americans are fairly familiar with the story of the heroic sacrifice of Captain Nathan Hale, but none have yet ventured to remove the veil of mystery that hides the identity of the betrayer of the young patriot.

Who delivered Nathan Hale into the hands of his executioners? That is a question which has never been answered. Was it one of his own cousins who happened to be a Tory and a British sympathizer? That suspicion has been expressed and although it has been pushed aside by Benson J. Lossing the historian, he admits that he has not been able to obtain any data for or against this theory.

It is a notorious fact that the Tories were very numerous in and about New York, and there seems to be reason for believing that some of Hale’s own family were in sympathy with their sycophantic sentiments. Could feelings of envy have entered into one of the saddest betrayals of American history? It is to be hoped not for the sake of our common humanity, and yet the popularity of Hale as he reached man’s estate was likely to arouse the mean jealousy of those of a lower order of mentality.

Nathan Hale was a magnificent specimen of manhood. His physical and mental qualities were alike distinguished. He was graduated from Yale college with high honors and while there made a record as an athlete. He was almost six feet in height, perfectly proportioned, and, in the words of Dr. Munson, was “the most manly man I have ever met.” His chest was broad, his muscles firm; his face wore a most benign expression; his complexion was rosy; his eyes, light blue and beaming with intelligence; his hair soft and light brown and his speech low, sweet and musical. Is it any wonder that the girls of New Haven loved him and wept when they heard his fate?

Nathan Hale was engaged in teaching school at New London when the rumbles of the Revolution first began to disturb the placid life of that part of the country. On the day that American blood was first shed at Lexington a twilight town meeting was called and Nathan Hale was one of the speakers. He called upon the people to act at once and to act in a manner that could not be misunderstood.

“Let us march immediately,” he cried with all of the passionate ardor of youth, “and let us never lay down our arms until we have obtained our independence.”

As a proof of both his consistency and his patriotism, Hale immediately enrolled himself as a volunteer. The following morning he bade good-by to his pupils and departed for Cambridge. Before long he had been formally enlisted as a lieutenant of a company in a regiment commanded by Colonel Charles Webb, and late in September of that year marched with his regiment to Cambridge and participated in the siege of Boston. Within three months he had been commissioned as a captain because of vigilance and bravery. The British were driven from Boston in the spring of the following year, and soon after that the Americans proceeded to New York. His earnestness in the cause was proven when he surrendered his own pay to his men in the endeavor to have them prolong their term of service, which had already expired.

Even at this early stage of his military career he covered himself with glory by performing what proved to be one of the most daring feats of the Revolution. A British sloop laden with provisions was anchored in the East River under the protection of the guns of a man-of-war called the _Asia_. Hale went to General Heath and obtained permission to attempt the capture of the supply vessel. With a few dozen picked men as resolute as himself, he embarked in a small boat at midnight and reached the side of the sloop unobserved by the sentinel. The young New Englander followed by his men sprang aboard the vessel, secured the sentinel, confined the crew below the hatches, raised the boat’s anchor and took her into the wharf just at the dawn of day. It was a dashing adventure and it was successful. He was the hero of the hour, especially among his fellow Americans, when the supplies were distributed among them. For many months after this he continued the routine work of a captain in the Revolutionary Army, and it was not until the 7th of September that he was called upon to take part in the thrilling exploit which was to end in such a disastrous and tragic manner. Washington had called a council of war to decide whether he should defend or abandon New York. He had already asked Congress this important question and he was answered by a resolution that in case he should find it necessary to quit New York he should have special care taken that no damage be done to the city. As a result of this he resolved to remain and defend the city.

General Washington had at this time made his headquarters at the house of Robert Murray. The position of his army was exceedingly perilous, ships of war having already passed up the East River. Scouts reported great activity among the British troops, but they were unable, after great efforts, to gain any intelligent idea of the intentions of the enemy. Yet Washington knew that it was most essential that he should have this information. He wrote to General Heath, then staying at Kings Bridge.

“As everything in a manner depends upon intelligence of the enemy’s motions, I do most earnestly entreat you and General Clinton to exert yourselves to accomplish this most desirable thing. Leave no stone unturned nor do not stick at expense to bring this to pass, as I was never more uneasy than on account of my want of knowledge on this score. Keep a constant lookout with good glasses on some commanding heights that look well on to the other shore.”

What Washington desired to know more than anything else was whether the British would make a direct attack upon the city, and if they did whether they intended to land upon the island above the city or Morrisania, beyond the Harlem River. The general in his perplexity called another council of war at Murray’s. At this conference it was resolved to send some courageous and competent person in disguise into the British camps on Long Island. The person needed was one skilled in military and scientific knowledge and a good draftsman—in short a man on whose judgment and fidelity they could absolutely depend. In this emergency Washington sent for Lieutenant Colonel Noulton and told him just what he wanted. In response Noulton summoned a number of officers to a conference at his quarters and in the name of the commander-in-chief called for volunteers. They were taken by surprise. There was a general reluctance to engage in the work of a spy. For a time it looked as if it would be impossible to obtain a man for the service, but at the last moment a young soldier who had been ill entered the room and learning the nature of the request called out:

“I will undertake the work.”

It was Captain Nathan Hale. Everybody was amazed, not the least among them being Lieutenant Colonel Noulton. Some of the others, who knew and loved Hale, privately endeavored to persuade him to reconsider his decision. They pointed out his hopes for the future and explained the ignominy and death to which he might be exposed. One of his dearest friends, William Hull, who was afterwards a general in the War of 1812, and who was a member of his company and had been his classmate at college, was especially fervid in trying to turn him from the perilous task, but Hale had made up his mind and would not change it. He said with great warmth:

“Gentlemen, I am satisfied that I owe to my country the accomplishment of an object so important and so much desired by the commander of her armies, and I know of no mode of obtaining the information except by assuming a disguise and passing into the enemy’s camp. I am fully sensible of the consequences of discovery and capture in such circumstances, but for a year I have been attached to the army and have not rendered any material service, while receiving a compensation for which I made no return. Yet I am not influenced by any expectation of promotion or pecuniary reward. I wish to be useful; and every kind of service necessary for the public good becomes honorable by being necessary. If the exigencies of my country demand a peculiar service its claims to the performance of that service are imperious.”

These words, thrilling with their patriotism, silenced the objections of his fellow soldiers. That very afternoon in company with Noulton he appeared before Washington and received instructions concerning his mission. He was provided with the necessary authority and also given a general order to the owners of all American vessels to convey him to any point on Long Island which he might designate.

He left the camp on Harlem Heights that night accompanied by Sergeant Stephen Hempstead. With him also was his servant, Ansel Wright. It was not until they had reached Norwalk, fifty miles from New York, that they found a safe place to cross the Sound. Here Hale exchanged his regimentals for citizen’s dress of brown cloth and a broad brimmed round hat. He directed his two companions to remain there until his return and also deposited with Hempstead his uniform and his military commission. Hale crossed the Sound to Huntingdon Bay where he landed disguised in the character of schoolmaster and Royalist who was disgusted with the Rebel forces. He entered the British camps in this disguise and was received with much enthusiasm by the Redcoats, who accepted him as an ally. It is known that he visited all the British camps on Long Island and made observations openly; that he passed over from Brooklyn to New York City and that he gathered considerable information concerning the condition of the British army at that place. So far he had been entirely successful in his mission.

On his return he safely reached the point on the Long Island shore where he had first landed, and he prepared to recross the Sound at Norwalk the first thing in the following morning. He wore shoes with loose inner soles and between the soles he had concealed the drawings he made of the fortifications and also other memoranda written in Latin on thin paper. Perfectly satisfied that he was safe from harm and filled with the thought that his mission had ended successfully, he calmly awaited the coming of daylight. His attention was attracted by the proximity of an inn known as “The Cedars.” This place was managed by a widow who was a staunch Loyalist. It was well known as the resort of the Tories in that part of the country. Hale was familiar with these facts, but was not disturbed at the thought of any personal danger.

The light in the window of “The Cedars” attracted him. It was necessary that he should have refreshments and lodgings. He felt perfectly safe now, considering that he was far away from the danger zone, and besides felt that his simple attire would protect him from prying eyes. Accordingly he strolled into the tavern and secured a room for the night. After that he went to the main room and ordered supper. The place was fairly crowded and the entrance of Hale apparently attracted no attention.

He took his ease, supping leisurely and listening with interest to the gossip of the loungers about the room. “The Cedars” was notoriously a resort for Tories and the young American was forced to listen to some conversation which he surely did not relish. But he had a sense of humor as well as a philosophy of his own and the blatant talk of the so-called Royalists did not disturb the serenity of his disposition. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the romantic side of the young man was attracted by the novelty of the situation. “The Cedars” was a quaint old inn. The customary shingle, offering refreshments for “man and beast” swung outside in the wind; mine host with a long white apron served beer in great stone mugs, and the patrons of the place sprawled about the tables smoking long stemmed pipes. They talked of war and they talked of spies, little thinking that an American officer who was just finishing an important mission was listening to all they had to say.

In the midst of the hub-bub a stranger entered the room. He caught one glance of Nathan Hale and then turned his face with the suddenness of one who has made a startling discovery. The next moment Hale had looked up, but too late to get a good view of the man’s face. He caught the merest glance of the guilty countenance, and from that moment his mind was haunted with a resemblance which it was impossible to fix with any certainty. The newcomer was in civilian’s dress. He wore his hair long and was square-shouldered. He spoke to no one and disappeared as silently as he had entered.

There can be no doubt that he is the man who betrayed Hale to the British. But there has always been real doubt concerning his identity. It is hinted that Hale himself said that the fellow resembled a distant cousin. But there is nothing on record to prove this disagreeable suspicion. Indeed, from that moment, there seems to have been an attempt to conceal all of the facts concerning Hale’s dramatic arrest and tragic death. Can this have been part of the plan to protect the informer? Over one hundred and forty years have passed since then and history still asks the name of the man who entered “The Cedars” on that fateful night in September, 1775.

Nathan Hale spent the night at this tavern, and at daylight the next morning he went out to search for the boat that was to convey him to the other side of the Sound. To his immense satisfaction he saw a craft moving towards the shore with several men in it. He had not the least doubt but that they were his friends and he hastened to the beach in order to meet it. As the boat touched the shore a half dozen British marines jumped out and surrounded him. He turned as if to run when a harsh voice exclaimed:

“Surrender instantly, or you die!”

Too late he realized that he had walked into a trap. He saw six men standing there erect with muskets levelled at his heart. It was folly to struggle. He was seized, taken into the barge and conveyed to the British guardship _Halifax_. His captors stripped and searched him and found the evidence of his mission concealed between the soles of his shoes. The unfortunate American was taken in one of the boats of the _Halifax_ to General Howe’s headquarters, which were then in the mansion of James Beekman at Mount Pleasant. This place contained among other things a great greenhouse filled with shrubbery and plants. In this greenhouse Hale was confined under a strong guard on the night of September 21. The following morning he was taken before Howe, who, without the formality of a trial, condemned him to be hung. He was delivered into the custody of William Cunningham with orders that he should be executed before sunrise the following day.

History informs us that when Hale was taken before Howe he frankly acknowledged the purpose of his mission.

“I was present at the interview,” wrote a British officer, “and I observed that the frankness, the manly bearing and the evident disinterested patriotism of the young prisoner touched a tender cord in General Howe’s nature; but the stern rules of war concerning such offenses would not allow him to exercise even pity.”

It was on a Sunday morning that Nathan Hale was marched to the place of execution, which was in the vicinity of what is now East Broadway and Market Street. He was escorted by a file of soldiers and was permitted to sit in a tent while waiting for the necessary preparations for his death. The young patriot asked for a chaplain but his request was brutally denied. He asked for a Bible, but this also was refused. It was only at the solicitation of a young officer in whose tent Hale sat that he was allowed to write brief letters to his mother, sisters and the young girl to whom he was betrothed. She was Alice Adams, a native of Canterbury, Connecticut, and distinguished both for her intelligence and personal beauty. Who could imagine the feelings that filled the young patriot as he penned his final words to the girl who was pledged to be his wife.

But imagine the scene a moment later when these tender epistles were handed to Cunningham. That officer read them with growing anger. He became furious as he realized the noble spirit which breathed in every word. He resolved that they should not be given to the world, and with an oath tore them into bits before the face of his victim. It was twilight on that beautiful September morning when Hale was led to his execution. The gallows was the limb of an apple tree in Colonel Rutger’s orchard. The young martyr was asked if he had anything to say. He turned to his executioner and in a calm clear voice said:

“I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

His body was buried near the spot where he died and a British officer was sent to acquaint Washington with the fate of his young messenger. A rude stone placed by the side of the grave of his father in the burial ground of the Congregational Church in his native town for many years revealed to passersby the fact that it was “In Commemoration of Nathan Hale, Esquire, a Captain in the Army of the United States, who was Born June Sixth, 1755, and Received the First Honors of Yale College, September 17, 1773, and Resigned His Life a Sacrifice to His Country’s Liberty at New York, September 22, 1776, Age Twenty-two.”

Sixty years ago, long before there was a monument to the memory of Hale, George Gibbs, librarian of the New York Historical Society, wrote this epitaph, which is worthy of preservation:

STRANGER, BENEATH THIS STONE
LIES THE DUST OF
A SPY,
WHO PERISHED UPON THE GIBBET;
YET
THE STORIED MARBLES OF THE GREAT,
THE SHRINES OF HEROES,
ENTOMBED ONE NOT MORE WORTHY OF
HONOR
THAN HIM WHO HERE
SLEEPS HIS LAST SLEEP.
NATIONS
BOW WITH REVERENCE BEFORE THE DUST
OF HIM WHO DIES
A GLORIOUS DEATH,
URGED ON BY THE SOUND OF THE
TRUMPET
AND THE SHOUTS OF
ADMIRING THOUSANDS
BUT WHAT REVERENCE, WHAT HONOR,
IS NOT DUE TO ONE,
WHO FOR HIS COUNTRY ENCOUNTERED
EVEN AN INFAMOUS DEATH,
SOOTHED BY NO SYMPATHY,
ANIMATED BY NO PRAISE!

The simple narrative of Nathan Hale’s life and death effectively disposes of the tradition that he undertook his perilous mission reluctantly or that he had any scruples about essaying the rôle of a spy. He regarded that task as part of the day’s work—an unpleasant part to be sure, but one of the things that had to be cheerfully undertaken in the line of duty.

But there is one phase of the tragic business that is shrouded in mystery and it is the story of his betrayal. Who was the strange man in “The Cedars”? Was he a cousin? Was he a Tory? Do the descendants of that man still live in New York City and what must their feelings be when they read the inscription upon the monument to the young patriot and martyr?

Until these questions have been answered and until this mystery has been made clear the story of Nathan Hale will be incomplete.

XIV

MAJOR LE CARON AND THE FENIAN INVASION OF CANADA

If there is one name in Ireland that is more cordially detested than another it is that of Thomas Beach, the spy, who is better known by his adopted name of Major Henri Le Caron. The story of how he came to assume that cognomen, and the manner in which he served the government of Great Britain as against his supposed co-patriots furnishes one of the most interesting chapters in the Secret Service of England, if not of the world.

Beach defends his work on the ground that when he was first brought into contact with Fenianism he had no ulterior motive in mind and that no material consideration prompted him to work against the men who hoped to bring about the freedom of Ireland by the spectacular invasion of Canada. He says that he was forced by a variety of circumstances to play a part he had never sought, but he insists that he did nothing to be ashamed of and has never felt any regret for the manner in which he served England. He says that there is no truth in the popular belief which credited him with receiving fabulous payments and frequent rewards. He admits that there was ever-present danger and constantly recurring difficulties, but very scant recompense from the Government for which he risked so much.

Beach was born in England, but came to the United States just about the time of the beginning of the Civil War and enlisted in the Union Army—in the 8th Pennsylvanian Reserves. But in enlisting he took on himself a new name and a new nationality. One reason he gives for this was his desire to avoid giving his parents anxiety. Also he thought it would be “a good joke.” Be that as it may, he was put down on the books of his company as Henri Le Caron and his home as France. He served through the greater part of the war, and after it was over became connected with the Grand Army of the Republic, holding among other positions those of Vice Commander and Post Surgeon, with the rank of major.

So from that time until the end of the chapter he was known as Major Le Caron, and he says that this afforded him an effective disguise through which he was enabled to keep the English authorities informed of the Irish movements on this side of the Atlantic.

It was through an Irishman named O’Neill that Le Caron became connected with the Fenian movement. He wrote home at intervals and he says that the information which was thus informally given to his family was by them taken to the Home Secretary in London, and in the course of time Le Caron became a regularly paid spy in the Secret Service. The consequences of this was that the proposed invasion of Canada was well known to the English and Canadian officials long before it occurred. The first invasion, with which Le Caron does not seem to have been personally connected occurred on the morning of June 1, 1866. For six months before that time active preparations were in progress. During the spring of the year many companies of soldiers, armed and uniformed, were being drilled in a number of cities in the United States. Thousands of stands of arms and millions of rounds of ammunition had been purchased and located at different points along the Canadian border.

The relations between the United States and England were not very cordial at that time because of the attitude of England during the Civil War, and as a consequence the proposed invasion, if it was not encouraged, was not greatly discouraged in this country. The attempt, however, proved a failure. The Fenians were defeated and driven out of Canada. Sixty of them were killed and more than two hundred taken prisoners. It was the natural result that is to be looked for when a volunteer force goes against a well trained army. Under the command of General John O’Neill 800 Irish patriots were towed across the Niagara River to a point on the Canadian side called Waterloo. At four o’clock in the morning the Irish flag was planted on British soil by Colonel Owen Starr, and from thence the patriots marched to and captured Fort Erie, containing a detachment of the Welland Battery.

The effect of the news of this first victory was electrical in the United States. Thousands who had hesitated about joining the movement were now willing and anxious to enlist. The Canadian Government, and Le Caron in his official reports to London endeavored to belittle this initial triumph, but they felt very much chagrined just the same. However, the Irish victory was short-lived. As soon as the news of the capture of Fort Erie spread to Toronto, the 22nd Battalion of Volunteers of that city hastened to the rescue, and at Ridgeway a bloody battle occurred between the opposing forces. The invaders were driven back to Fort Erie and later were taken as prisoners by the United States battleship _Michigan_.

The news of the temporary victory had a wonderful effect in the United States. By the 7th of June not less than 30,000 men had assembled in and around Buffalo, prepared to fight if it was deemed desirable. But the defeat of the detachment that had actually entered Canada, and the issuance of a neutrality proclamation by President Andrew Johnson ended the war for the time being. The prisoners were released on their own recognizance and sent home by the United States authorities. The arms seized by the American Government were returned to the Fenian organization, and if Dame Rumor is not a falsifier, were used for a second invasion of Canada four years later.

In 1869 Le Caron was so intimate with his Fenian friends that he was made an inspector general of the Irish Republican Army. After that he was assistant adjutant general with the rank of colonel, and his new position enabled him not only to become possessed of the originals of many important documents and plans of proposed campaigns, but also specimens of the Fenian army commissions which he promptly conveyed to the officials of the Canadian Government. In this work he was assisted by a number of officials from Canada. Speaking of this, he says:

“Successful as I was in avoiding detection through all this work, those assisting me in my secret service capacity were not always destined to share in my good luck. This has been particularly the case on one occasion. I was at the time shipping arms at Malone, N. Y., and attended on behalf of the Canadian Government by one of the staff men placed at my disposal for the purpose of immediate communication and the transit of any documents requiring secrecy and dispatch as well as for personal protection should such prove necessary. This man, John C. Rose, was one of the most faithful and trusted servants of the Canadian administration, and for months he followed me along the whole border.

“Though stopping at the same hotels and in constant communication with me, no suspicion was aroused until his identity was accidentally disclosed by a visitor from the seat of government to one of the Fenians located at Malone. Men were immediately set to watch him without my knowledge, and the fact of his being found always in my wake on my visits to and from several towns led to the belief that he was spying upon my actions. A few nights after this poor Rose on his return from sending a dispatch from the postoffice, was waylaid, robbed and brutally beaten, and subsequently brought back to the hotel in as sorry a plight as I ever saw.”

In the meantime, in the winter of 1869, the Fenian Senate announced the completion of the arrangements for the invasion of Canada, and early in February the following year circulars were sent out to the military officers of the Fenian Brotherhood, instructing them to prepare for the proposed campaign. Those Brothers whose business or family duties prevented them from getting their commands in readiness for active and immediate service were requested to forward their resignations at once and at the same time send on the names of persons suitable to take their places. They were told to ascertain and report how many of their own men could furnish their own transportation, and in the meantime to try and persuade all of them to save enough for that purpose.

On Saturday, April 22, 1870, General O’Neill and Le Caron left Buffalo for St. Albans, the general being filled with enthusiasm over the belief that the Canadians would be taken entirely by surprise, and Le Caron laughing in his sleeve at the thought of how his companion would be fooled. O’Neill’s plan was to get across the boundary line without delay and then to entrench himself at a point where his soldiers would form the nucleus around which a large army and unlimited support would rally from the United States. Buffalo, Malone, and Franklin were the three points from which attacks were to be made. O’Neill expected 1,000 men to meet him at Franklin, on the night of April 25, 1870. Only a quarter of that number presented themselves, and by the following morning not more than 500 had mustered. Every hour’s delay added to the danger of failure and collapse. All this time Le Caron was busy sending messages across the border carrying full details as to the time the Fenians would leave Franklin, the exact points at which they would cross the border, their numbers, and the places of their contemplated operation.

On April 26 O’Neill left the Franklin Hotel to place himself at the head of the Fenian Army. Hubbard’s Farm, the Fenian camp and rendezvous, was about half a mile from Franklin, and here all of the available soldiers had been mustered. Arranging them in line, O’Neill, according to Le Caron’s narrative, addressed them as follows: