The Spy: Condensed for use in schools

“You are said,” continued the president, “to be Henry Wharton, a captain in his Britannic Majesty’s Sixtieth regiment of foot.”

“I am.”

“It is an accusation against you, that, being an officer of the enemy, you passed the pickets of the American army at the White Plains, in disguise, on the 29th of October last, whereby you are suspected of views hostile to the interests of America, and have subjected yourself to the punishment of a spy.”

The mild but steady tones of the speaker, as he slowly repeated the substance of this charge, were full of authority. The accusation was so plain, the facts so limited, the proof so obvious, and the penalty so well established, that escape seemed impossible. But Henry replied with earnest grace:

“That I passed your pickets in disguise is true; but – ”

“Peace!” interrupted the president; “the usages of war are stern enough in themselves; you need not aid them in your own condemnation.”

“The prisoner can retract that declaration, if he please,” remarked another judge. “His confession, if taken, goes fully to prove the charge.”

“I retract nothing that is true,” said Henry, proudly.

“You are at liberty to explain what your motives were in entering the ground held by our army, in disguise,” said the other judge, with a slight movement of the muscles of his face.

“I am the son of this aged man before you,” continued Henry. “It was to visit him that I encountered the danger. Besides, the country below is seldom held by your troops, and its very name implies a right to either party to move at pleasure over its territory.”

“Its name as neutral ground is unauthorized by law; it is an appellation[103 - name.] that originates with the condition of the country. But wherever an army goes, it carries its rights along, and the first is the ability to protect itself.”

“I am no casuist,[104 - one who studies cases of conscience.] sir,” returned the youth; “but I feel that my father is entitled to my affection, and I would encounter greater risks to prove it to him in his old age.”

“A very commendable spirit,” cried the veteran. “Come, gentlemen, this business brightens. I confess, at first it was very bad, but no man can censure him for desiring to see his parent.”

“And have you proof that such only was your intention?”

“Yes – here,” said Henry, admitting a ray of hope; “here is proof – my father, my sister, Major Dunwoodie, all know it.”

“Then, indeed,” returned the immovable judge, “we may be able to save you. It would be well, sir, to examine further into this business.”

“Certainly,” said the president, with alacrity. “Let the elder Mr. Wharton approach and take the oath.”

The father made an effort at composure, and, advancing with a feeble step, he complied with the necessary forms of the court.

“You are the father of the prisoner?” said Colonel Singleton, in a subdued voice.

“He is my only son.”

“And what do you know of his visit to your house on the twenty-ninth day of October last?”

“He came, as he told you, to see me and his sisters.”

“Was he in disguise?” asked the other judge.

“He did not wear the uniform of the Sixtieth.”

“To see his sisters, too!” said the president, with great emotion. “Have you daughters, sir?”

“I have two. Both are in this house.”

“Had he a wig?” interrupted the officer.

“There was some such thing, I do believe, upon his head.”

“And how long had you been separated?” asked the president.

“One year and two months.”

“Did he wear a loose great-coat of coarse materials?” inquired the officer, referring to a paper that contained the charges.

“There was an overcoat.”

“And you think it was to see you only that he came out?”

“Me and my daughters.”

“A boy of spirit,” whispered the president to his silent comrade. “I see but little harm in such a freak; ’twas imprudent, but then it was kind.”

“Do you know that your son was intrusted with no commission from Sir Henry Clinton, and that his visit to you was not merely a cloak to other designs?”

“How can I know it?” said Mr. Wharton, in alarm. “Would Sir Henry trust me with such business?”

“Know you anything of this pass?” exhibiting the paper that Dunwoodie had retained when Wharton was taken.

“Nothing – upon my honor, nothing,” cried the father, shrinking from the paper as from contagion.[105 - communication of disease by contact.]

“On your oath?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you other testimony? This does not avail you, Captain Wharton. You have been taken in a situation where your life is forfeited. The labor of proving your innocence rests with yourself. Take time to reflect, and be cool.”

There was a frightful calmness in the manner of this judge that appalled the prisoner. In the sympathy of Colonel Singleton, he could easily lose sight of his danger; but the obdurate and collected air of the others was ominous of his fate. He continued silent, casting imploring glances towards his friends.

Dunwoodie understood the appeal, and offered himself as a witness. He was sworn, and desired to relate what he knew. His statement did not materially alter the case, and Dunwoodie felt that it could not. To him personally but little was known, and that little rather militated against the safety of Henry than otherwise. His account was listened to in silence, and the significant shake of the head that was made by the silent member too plainly told what effect it had made.

“Still you think that the prisoner had no other object than what he has avowed?” said the president, when he had ended.

“None other, I will pledge my life,” cried the major.

“Will you swear it?” asked the immovable judge.

“How can I? God alone can see the heart. But I have known this gentleman from a boy; deceit never formed part of his character. He is above it.”

“You say that he escaped and was taken in open arms?” said the president.

“He was; nay, he received a wound in the combat.”