The World’s Greatest Military
Spies and Secret Service Agents

THE CAPTURE OF MAJOR ANDRÉ (See page [67])

The WORLD’S
GREATEST
MILITARY
SPIES and
Secret Service Agents

By GEORGE BARTON

Illustrated

THE PAGE COMPANY
BOSTON * MDCCCCXVIII

Copyright, 1917, by
The Page Company
All rights reserved

First Impression, October, 1917
Second Impression, July, 1918

TO
WILLIAM J. FLYNN
CHIEF OF
THE UNITED STATES SECRET SERVICE
WHOSE UNTIRING EFFORTS
RID THIS COUNTRY OF FOREIGN SPIES
DURING THE WORLD’S GREATEST WAR

INTRODUCTION

The romance of war in its most thrilling form is exemplified in this narrative of the adventures of “The World’s Greatest Military Spies and Secret Service Agents.” Much has been published upon the subject of espionage, and the memoirs and secret histories of the courts of Europe give us instances of men and women who have gained favor and money, if not honor and glory, by selling back-stairs gossip concerning their fellow creatures; but the aim of the present work has been rather to relate the big exploits of those who faced great personal danger and risked their lives for the sake of flag and country.

Each story is complete in itself, and yet forms a link in the chain of narratives which illustrates the startling and unexpected manner in which battles have been lost and won through the shrewdness and the courage of military spies at various times in different countries of the world. All spies are not admirable. Indeed, some whose deeds are herein related seem despicable. The use of the word “spy” in this series is in its broadest, and usually its best, sense. In all of the great wars of history there have been spies, scouts, emissaries and others still with no very well defined status, who have rendered invaluable service to their governments. A spy is liable to death; a scout, if captured, has the rights of a prisoner of war, but an emissary is rather political than military, and is sent to influence secretly the opposition rather than to bring information concerning the movements of troops.

There are spies and spies. Just where the line is to be drawn must depend largely upon the personal view-point of the reader. Some of those who have been engaged in hazardous military exploits are looked upon as among the world’s greatest heroes; others who have abused the hospitality of their entertainers in order to betray them have earned never-ending obloquy. Everything depends upon the circumstances and the point of view. Human nature has been the same in all ages. We are disposed to justify and glorify the military spy who risks his life for our own country and our own cause, and to condemn and abuse the one who is enlisted in the service of the enemy.

Generally speaking, there is a natural repugnance to the professional spy in times of war, who is regarded as akin to the paid informer in times of peace. But the tendency is to applaud the real soldier who is willing to depart from the strict lines of military duty in order to serve his country. Napoleon, who can scarcely be called a scrupulous man, even by his most ardent admirers, refused to bestow the medal of honor on his chief spy. “Money, as much as you like,” he exclaimed, “but the cross—never!”

At the time of the capture of Emilio Aguinaldo by the late Brigadier-General Frederick Funston a question arose regarding the ethics of the means employed by some of the members of the troops under his command on that occasion. It arose in a lecture before the law class at the University of the Philippines. Justice Carson, of the Supreme Court, was asked to enlighten the students on this point. Instead of doing so, he wrote and asked General Funston’s view of the matter. The reply of the American soldier may be accepted as the authorized military view of the question. General Funston wrote:

“In a nutshell, the legal status of all those engaged in the expedition referred to was that of spies, and as such they could not have claimed immunity from the usual fate of spies. While we were not disguised for the purpose of obtaining information, the fact that we penetrated the enemy’s lines under false colors would have justified treating us as such.

“Having acknowledged that our status was that of Spies, I wish to call attention to a popular, erroneous belief that spies are violators of the laws of war simply because they are spies and in disguise. It is safe to say that there never has been a war in which both sides did not use spies; in fact, the principal military nations use them in time of peace. Spies are punished, not because there is anything morally reprehensible in their work, but because it is desired to make their occupations so dangerous that it will be difficult to find men to undertake the risks involved.

“The status of the spy in our own history cannot better be shown than in the fact that Nathan Hale, the spy of our own Revolution, whose impressive statue stands in New York and whose last words on the gallows were: ‘My chief regret is that I have but one life to give for my country,’ is one of the greatest of our national heroes.

“Washington has been regarded always as one of the most scrupulous of men, but he did not hesitate to hold as a prisoner the British general Prescott, captured by Colonel Barton of the Rhode Island militia and a few men, all disguised as non-combatants, who penetrated the British lines under false colors.

“Although the use of spies is not a violation of the laws of war, there are certain acts that are recognized as such and may be punished by death: The violation of the flag of truce; breaking a truce; violation of parole; the use of poison; killing of prisoners of war to prevent their recapture, and hoisting the hospital flag over a place not a hospital. But all these imply moral obliquity, and I have never heard of any one being rewarded or having a monument erected to him for having been guilty of any one of them.

“The Filipinos are about the last people in the world who can question the ethics of entering the enemy’s lines in disguise. As a veteran of the war you know that, disguised as non-combatants, their officers and soldiers are among us all the time, and that if we had enforced the law strictly relative to spies we would have been hanging men all the time.”

The halo of romance hovers in a special manner over women spies, and it is interesting to note that the United States furnishes the most conspicuous examples of this class in the persons of Belle Boyd, the Confederate girl who saved Stonewall Jackson; and Emma Edmonds, the Union spy, whose adventures could scarcely be duplicated in the pages of fiction. The story of a third American woman is related in this volume—Lydia Darrah, the gentle and brave Quakeress who saved Washington’s army from destruction. She was not a spy in the accepted sense of the word, and it would be impossible to imagine a greater contrast than is presented between the colonial girl and the two women of the Civil War, but the service she rendered the young and struggling nation cannot be overestimated.

A book of this character would not be complete without the stories of Nathan Hale and Major André, the American and the Briton, each young and gallant, and each giving up his life for his country. In a general way, their exploits are familiar, yet it may be found that a new light has been turned upon certain phases of the sacrifices which they both so cheerfully made for the causes they represented.

An effort has been made to confine this work to the operations of military spies, but in possibly two instances the rule has been relaxed in order to present phases of that form of diplomacy which is so closely allied with war as to be part of it. Most of the incidents are interwoven with the history of the countries to which they relate, and are part of the archives of the State, War and Navy Departments of these nations. Taken all in all, the pages of fiction contain few things more fascinating or thrilling than these fact stories.

G. B.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The World’s Greatest Military
Spies and Secret Service Agents

I
THE ALSATIAN SMUGGLER WHO HELPED NAPOLEON TO CAPTURE THE AUSTRIAN ARMY

This is the story of a thrilling episode in the life of a man who has been called the Prince of Spies. His name was Charles Louis Schulmeister and he played a most invaluable part in building the fame of no less a person than Napoleon Bonaparte. What the greatest military genius of his time might have accomplished without the aid of his wonderfully effective secret service system must be left to the imagination. What he actually did with the assistance of Charles Louis Schulmeister and his associates is one of the most fascinating parts of the secret archives of France and Austria.

First a word concerning the life and personality of this famous military spy. He was a native of an Alsatian village—New Freistell in the Grand Duchy of Baden, on the right bank of the Rhine. He was an adventurous boy and his early life was filled with hair-raising escapades. It was the most natural thing in the world for such a youth to develop into a smuggler and for years he followed that calling to the dismay of the authorities and to the advantage of his personal fortunes.

Schulmeister was of medium build, brusque in his manner and movements, smooth-faced and with two ugly scars on his forehead, the result of bravery in battle. He had blue eyes, clear, penetrating and unwavering. He was quick to think and prompt to execute; shrewd, smart and full of courage and resolution. Also, Schulmeister was absolutely devoid of the sense of fear.

In 1805 Napoleon was at Strassburg planning his wonderful Austrian campaign. His camp at Boulogne was marvelous and its size calculated to strike terror into the heart of the enemy. But the Corsican did not propose to move until he was fully informed of the extent and character of the forces he would be called upon to meet. He wanted a shrewd and tried man in the camp of the enemy. In this emergency he sent for General Savery, the head of the French Secret Service, and informed him of his desire. The officer saluted.

“Sire, I have the very man you need for this mission.”

Savery, who was not particularly noted for his scrupulousness, had a score of fearless men at his beck and call, and not the least of them was Charles Louis Schulmeister. The Alsatian smuggler had been on Savery’s staff for years, and had performed delicate missions with great success. The moment Napoleon spoke Savery decided to employ Schulmeister for this latest dangerous mission. He had the young Alsatian brought to him and informed him of the Emperor’s wishes.

“The Emperor wishes to see you personally and at once,” he said.

Schulmeister was skeptical. He rubbed his brawny hand across the scars on his forehead:

“You are having sport with me.”

“Not at all,” was the vehement rejoinder. “The Emperor wishes to see you on a matter of great importance. Be prepared to meet him at any moment.”

The Alsatian sat down and awaited the summons, but not without some trepidation. He recalled the lawless career he had pursued, prior to his military service, and he wondered if he was called to give an account of his misdeeds. Yet the Great Man of Destiny would scarcely waste his time on such secondary and trivial matters. Possibly he had been misrepresented to the Emperor. In that event he would truly have reason to shake in his boots, for Napoleon made short shrift of those whose loyalty was not absolutely unquestioned.

But with that phase of the business Schulmeister straightened out his shoulders and was filled with resolution. He knew that he had been faithful to Napoleon and France; whatever other defects there might be in his character—and they were many and serious—disloyalty was not one of them. As to meeting the great man—pshaw! that was but part of the day’s work.

“Schulmeister, come forward!”

This command from an officer awakened the young Alsatian from his day dreams. He was being conducted to the presence of the man whose name was already reverberating around the world. He followed closely on the heels of the messenger, wondering why he had been summoned and how he should act. Before he could map out any coherent line of conduct he realized that he was in the headquarters of the Emperor.

Schulmeister looked about him quickly and for the moment was confused. The place was filled with staff officers wearing glittering uniforms and talking in low but animated tones. Which of these could be the Emperor? He looked for the most impressive uniform but was not enlightened. Presently his glance fell upon a man short in stature, but well formed and resolute in his manner. He was apart from the others and restlessly paced up and down the narrow limits of the apartment. He wore a long gray coat over a plain uniform. He turned around unexpectedly and moved out of the mass of gorgeously uniformed men. The Alsatian recognized him at once.

It was Napoleon.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

At first the Emperor’s smooth face, firmly set jaw and rigid mouth seemed to portend a storm. But as his eyes rested on the young man he smiled charmingly and engagingly. The glance that he shot at his visitor was at once ardent and penetrating. He placed his hand on Schulmeister’s shoulder.

“You are an Alsatian?”

“Yes, sire.”

“You look like a brave man—a man who will risk his life for France.”

“Willingly,” was the quick response.

After that the Man of Destiny and the former smuggler sat down and planned the scheme by which the Emperor was to gain the information he desired concerning the position, the extent and the prospective movements of the enemy. Schulmeister, while not particularly educated, was exceptionally quick witted. It has been said that he was as “sharp as a steel trap” and that is the impression he made on the Emperor, for Napoleon afterwards spoke glowingly of the spy to General Savery, his aide-de-camp.

The result of the campaign that had been planned was to have a marked effect upon the future of the “Little Corporal,” as the idolizing soldiers insisted upon calling their chief. The Emperor accompanied the spy to the door of his headquarters, and as he left called after him:

“Don’t fail me!”

Schulmeister hastened away and the thing that he remembered most of all was the figure of the little man in the long gray coat, waving his short arm and calling out that message of warning and of confidence. Who shall say that this day was not to mark the beginning of the founding of the great Napoleonic empire?

Time is everything!

Napoleon had said this often and his faithful servitor learned it by heart. He had a brief interview with General Savery, and the next moment started on his mission. The expected happened—the thing he wished to happen—the incident that was necessary in order to set the little drama in motion.

He was arrested by the French police on the charge of espionage and hustled by them to the frontier. It is impossible, if not indiscreet, to admit too many persons into one’s confidence. The officers who had made the arrest were ardent Frenchmen as well as faithful policemen, and they did not treat the young Alsatian any too tenderly. In fact, he received more cuffs and kicks than he liked. But he took them all unresistingly and even smiled when he was given a final push and sent headlong into the camp of the Austrians.

They received him with open arms, and when he told them a cock-and-bull story of his adventures in the French camp, nothing would do but that he must enter the Secret Service of the Austrian Army. Such a valuable man was not to be lost.

The news of this was taken to the short man in the long gray coat, and as he paced up and down amidst his brilliantly uniformed officers he was heard to give vent to a chuckle—the sort of a chuckle one expects from a man whose plans are working precisely as he wished.

In the meantime Schulmeister settled down to business in earnest. He gained the acquaintance and then the friendship of two very important men. One was Captain Wend of the Austrian Secret Service, and the other Lieutenant Bendel, aide-de-camp to General Kienmayer. In this, as in all else, he had followed the advice of his Corsican superior. With him, as with the greater man, time was “everything.”

A less audacious man would have hesitated about approaching such officers as Wend and Bendel; a less courageous man would have feared it, and a less imaginative man would never have thought of it. But Schulmeister had audacity, courage and imagination. He unbosomed himself to these two men, he pointed out the possibilities of the future and he painted the glories and the rewards of the Napoleonic empire.

In less than twenty-four hours Captain Wend and Lieutenant Bendel had become his allies, and thereafter worked with him hand and glove.

The next necessary move was to obtain the confidence of the higher Austrian officers and to find out their plans. He was able to do this with the assistance of Captain Wend and Lieutenant Bendel.

The Allies had a great body of soldiers in the field. The chief figure was Field Marshal Baron Mack, who had 90,000 splendidly equipped and well trained men under his command. His army formed the right wing of an enormous host, of which Archduke Charles with 140,000 men in northern Italy and Archduke John with 50,000 more in the passes of the Tyrol were important adjuncts.

General Mack was impressed with the great strength of his troops and felt that he could easily overcome Napoleon with the superiority of his numbers. Schulmeister learned of this over-confidence and was all the more anxious to reach the big man. Captain Wend undertook to present the Alsatian to Mack. It proved to be easy. The Austrian commander was not anxious to move unless it was necessary, and when he learned that there was a man in the vicinity who had been in the camp of Napoleon he was eager to meet him.

Schulmeister was bidden to come into his presence and told to describe all that he had seen in the camp of the “enemy.” He did so with a vividness of imagination that would have done credit to Baron Munchausen.

For nearly an hour the medium-sized man with the ugly scars and the sky-blue eyes sat there and poured fiction into the ears of the great general—the man decorated with many medals and filled with a sense of his own importance. And Mack believed it all. At the conclusion the Austrian turned to one of his subordinates.

“You see; it is as I suspected. We must not move from this place. We must watch and wait.”

So, on the strength of the information—the false information—supplied by the Alsatian smuggler, the great army dawdled away its time in idleness. That is to say, it was really idle while making a pretense of activity. General Mack moved his troops about aimlessly in order to fool the enemy. That was his notion of military strategy. But alas! for his expectations, he was dealing with the master military strategist of his time—if not of all times.

Having deluded the Austrian commander and obtained accurate data concerning his plans, Schulmeister now made it his business to convey the information to Napoleon. He was readily given leave to go to the French camp, with instructions to get all the facts possible as to its future movements.

He was in an enviable position. He had the passwords of both armies and he made his way to the quarters of the Emperor without any difficulty. As before, he found the silent, mysterious figure in the long gray coat, in the midst of his brilliantly attired staff. Schulmeister almost ran into the presence of the “Little Corporal.”

“Sire,” he said, “I have important news from the front.”

Napoleon dismissed his officers, and sat down to listen to the report of the spy. His penetrating eyes seemed to pierce the soul of Schulmeister, but the Alsatian bore the scrutiny without flinching. The Emperor was satisfied. His determined look gave way to one of his charming smiles.

“Proceed,” said he.

Briefly, but without omitting any essential detail, Schulmeister told the story of his adventures from the time he had left the French camp until his return. At intervals there was a quiet chuckle from the great soldier. After he had concluded Napoleon propounded a number of questions, all of which the spy was able to answer clearly and satisfactorily. Then the short man in the long coat arose and paced up and down for some moments in silence. Presently he placed his hand on Schulmeister’s shoulder and said:

“You have done your work well; return and keep me posted on future developments.”

So Schulmeister made his way back to the Austrian lines, while the Corsican proceeded with his plans for enveloping the enemy. Mack was “bottled up” but not quite effectively. Time was needed to complete the job and it was the Alsatian spy who was to make that time possible. He hastened to the Austrian commander. On this occasion he had no need of a go-between. He had now the confidence of Mack and the orders were that he should be permitted to go and come as he pleased. The Baron was delighted at the return of “his spy,” as he called him. Schulmeister told of his visit to the French camp and gave what purported to be a résumé of Napoleon’s plans.

The audacity of the man may be judged when it is known that he gave considerable accurate information. This was susceptible of confirmation, and the fact that it was confirmed by some of Mack’s subordinates only served to raise Schulmeister in the estimation of the Austrian. And all the while Napoleon was marshaling his forces in such a way that the escape of the enemy seemed impossible.

Presently it began to dawn on General Mack that something was wrong. Disquieting reports came from the outer defenses. The Austrian became genuinely disturbed. He sent for Schulmeister and questioned him regarding the previous “information” he had brought him, but the Alsatian went through the ordeal with flying colors. Indeed, he gave him one or two additional facts which were so transparently correct that it placed the spy above suspicion.

On the seventh of October the campaign of strategy on both sides came to a close. With Napoleon it had been a series of restless moves. With Mack it had been a period of marking time, of doing nothing.

Too late he realized his mistake. He hurried to the north and found that the French troops were lined up there in a solid phalanx; he turned to the south and discovered that his retreat was cut off there. The east and the west were in the same condition. The worst part of it was that these various lines were slowly but surely closing in on him. He could see now that the Corsican commander had been engaged in a vast enveloping campaign.

In a word, the great Napoleon had the Austrian army in a grip of steel!

Mack presented a pitiable sight, sitting there with his head between his hands, humiliated and remorseful—the victim of his own inactivity and his too confiding nature. The members of his staff gazed on the spectacle silently and not entirely with pity. From a distance Charles Louis Schulmeister also beheld the defeated Austrian chief. He felt, like the others, that it was all over but the shouting. The spy kept discreetly away from the immediate vicinity of the general and his staff. He knew very well that if his duplicity were discovered that he would, even then, be shot down like a dog. So he patiently awaited the arrival of the French troops.

But unexpectedly the situation seemed to change. It is an axiom of war that no chain is stronger than its weakest link. Napoleon had completely surrounded the Austrians and their allies, but there was one section where the French line was very thin—too thin indeed for French comfort. And while Mack was moping over his hard fate some of his more energetic officers had been making a closer investigation of the situation.

The sound of a horse’s hoofs was heard and an aide-de-camp galloped into the presence of Mack.

The officer alighted and saluted his chief.

“General,” he cried, “there is a weak link in the French lines about two miles to the south, and with a sufficient force we may be able to break through.”

This was as balm to the sorely afflicted pride of the Austrian. He rose to the situation. Officers were sent hither and thither and the soldiers massed for an attack upon the point in question.

Napoleon’s spy looked upon these preparations with a sinking heart. If they were carried out all of his work might go for naught. That seemed like a glorious French victory might be turned into simply a drawn battle.

He had to think and think quickly!

As usual, he was equal to the occasion. Captain Wend, of the Austrian Secret Service, and Lieutenant Bendel were near him ready to share in the downfall of the Austrian arms. They, too, realized that the situation now hung upon a thread. They were completely in Schulmeister’s power, and were ready to do anything he might command. He prepared a false message purporting to be signed by one of the officers of the outlying regiments. It said, in substance:

A revolution has broken out among the people of Paris. Riots are going on in the streets. Napoleon is hurrying home and the retreat of the French troops is but a question of time.

This was conveyed to Mack by Captain Wend. It filled the Austrian commander with amazement. It was so unexpected and so surprising. His mind worked slowly at best, and this intelligence seemed to impair his thinking faculties still further. Schulmeister was too shrewd to permit his enterprise to rest on a single warning. He sent a second message by another officer and finally he personally appeared before the Austrian commander and told him things that appeared like confirmation as strong as Holy Writ. Mack was flooded with false messages.

As a consequence of this he called back his troops and calmly sat down to await the retreat of the enemy. That this inaction was largely due to his own indolence cannot be doubted. But that it was chiefly prompted by the cunning of the Alsatian spy is a matter of history.

Before the sun went down that day the weak link in the French lines had been strengthened effectively. Napoleon had his troops under perfect control and the ring of steel began to draw in closer and closer. Mack, in his fancied security, waited for the retreat of the enemy. Day by day Napoleon became more irresistible, while the Austrian grew weaker.

Finally he awoke to discover that he had made a second mistake, and a greater one than the first. The Ulm campaign came to a sudden termination on the 18th of October, when Mack capitulated and surrendered his entire force.

* * * * *

This campaign has few parallels in history. Not a shot had been fired and many of the Austrians had not even seen a French soldier!

While the world was ringing with the news of this remarkable close to a remarkable campaign, General Savery, who is also known to history as the Duke de Rongo, accompanied Charles Louis Schulmeister on a visit to the Emperor Napoleon. The great soldier congratulated the Alsatian smuggler and loaded him down with financial favors. Schulmeister’s fortune was made—from a worldly standpoint.

He was given leave of absence, with the understanding that he must remain subject to the Emperor’s call. He had the right to go anywhere he chose and he chose to go to his home in the Alsatian village of New Freistell. The wife of his youth awaited him eagerly. This curious man, who knew neither fear nor pity, had one unexpected characteristic. He was passionately fond of children. Although married several years there was no prospect of little ones.

Schulmeister was not a man to be thwarted in his desires. He went out into the village, found two orphaned and homeless children and adopted them as his own. Visitors to the little place on the right bank of the Rhine tell of seeing the world-famous spy frolicking on the lawn of his home with these children. For the time being the man who had affected the destinies of armies was subject to the whims and the caprices of two little ones. He obeyed their slightest commands as implicitly as he had the orders of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Queer sight in this queerest of all possible worlds!

II
BELLE BOYD, THE CONFEDERATE GIRL WHO SAVED STONEWALL JACKSON

That brilliant writer, Gilbert Chesterton, in one of his paradoxical essays said that a fact, if looked at fiercely, may become an adventure. It is certain that the most important facts in the life of Belle Boyd, the Confederate spy, constitute some of the most thrilling adventures in the great conflict between the sections—the Civil War in the United States.

She was only a girl when the flag was fired on at Sumter and her father and all the members of her family immediately enlisted in the Confederate army. When the Union troops took possession of Martinsburg, Belle Boyd found herself unwillingly inside the Federal lines. She had no formal commission from any of the Southern officers, but circumstances and her ardent nature made her an intense partisan of what was to be “The Lost Cause.”

During the occupation of Martinsburg, she shot a Union soldier, who, she claimed, had insulted a Southern woman. From that moment until the close of the war she was actively engaged either as a spy, a scout or an emissary of the Confederacy. On more than one occasion she attracted the attention of Secretary of War Stanton, and although she served a term in a military prison, she seems to have been treated with unusual leniency. After the war she escaped to England, where she published her autobiography, bitterly assailing the victorious North.

It was in Martinsburg that Belle Boyd first began her work for the Confederacy. The Union officers sometimes left their swords and pistols about the houses which they occupied, and later were surprised and mystified at the strange disappearance of the weapons. They little thought that this mere slip of a girl was the culprit. Still later they were amazed to find that these same swords and pistols had found their way into the hands of the enemy and were being used against them.

But aside from this Belle Boyd made it her business to pick up all the information that was possible concerning the movements and the plans of the Union forces. Every scrap of news she obtained was promptly conveyed to General J. E. B. Stuart and other Confederate officers.

BELLE BOYD

It was about the time of the battle of Bull Run that the Confederate general in command fixed upon Front Royal as a site for a military hospital. Belle Boyd was one of the nurses and many a fevered brow felt the touch of her cool hand and more than one stricken soldier afterwards testified to the loving care he received from this remarkable woman.

Later, Front Royal became the prize of the Union army, and Belle Boyd naturally fell under suspicion. Some remarks of her activities had already reached the front, and the officers kept her under close scrutiny. Fortunately, as she thought, she had been provided with a pass which would permit her to leave the place. Accordingly, the second day after the arrival of the Unionists she packed her grip and prepared to leave the town. As she came from the house she was halted by a Union officer named Captain Bannon.

“Is this Miss Belle Boyd?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I am the Assistant Provost Marshal, and I regret to say that orders have been issued for your detention. It is my duty to inform you that you cannot proceed until your case has been investigated.”

This did not suit the young woman at all. She opened her pocketbook and produced a bit of pasteboard.

“I have here a pass from General Shields. Surely that should be sufficient to permit me to leave the city.”

The young officer was perplexed. He did not care to repudiate a pass issued by General Shields, and at the same time did not wish to disobey the instructions which he had received from his immediate chief.

“I hardly know what to do,” he said. “However, I am going to Baltimore with a squad of men in the morning. I will take you with me and when we get there turn you over to General Dix.”

This program was carried out and the Confederate spy was given a free trip to the monumental city, which she did not want. She was compelled to remain in Baltimore for some time, being kept constantly under the closest supervision. Finally, however, General Dix gave her permission to return to her home. There was no direct evidence against her and it was considered a waste of time and energy to keep her under guard. She was escorted to the boundaries of her old home by two Union soldiers. It was twilight when she arrived at the Shenandoah River. The effects of the war were to be seen on every side. The bridges had been destroyed, and they only managed to cross the river by means of a temporary ferry boat that had been pressed into service.

When she reached her home she found that it had been appropriated as a headquarters by General Shields and the members of his staff. He treated her courteously and said that no harm would befall her if she was discreet and attended to her own business. She was told that a small house adjoining the family dwelling had been set aside for her use, and that the soldiers would be given orders not to molest her in any way.

But the young daughter of the Confederacy kept her eyes and ears open and the night before the departure of General Shields, who was to give battle to General Jackson, she learned that a council of war was to be held in the drawing-room of the Boyd home. Just over this apartment was a bedroom containing a large closet. On the night of the council she managed to make her way to this room and slipped into the closet. A hole had been bored through the floor, whether by design or otherwise she was unable to tell. However, she immediately determined to take advantage of what she considered a providential situation.

When the council assembled the girl got down on her hands and knees in the bottom of the closet and placed her ear near the hole in the floor. To her great satisfaction she found that she could distinctly hear all of the conversation. The conference between the Union officers lasted for hours, but she remained motionless and silent until it had been concluded. When the scraping movement of the chairs on the floor below was heard she knew that everything was over so came out of her place of concealment. She was tired and her limbs were so stiff from remaining in that cramped position so long that it was all she could do to move. But she was full of grit and determination and as soon as the coast was clear she hurried across the courtyard and made the best of her way to her own room in the little house and wrote down in cipher—a cipher of her own—everything of importance that she had overheard.

After that it was but a matter of a few minutes to decide on her course of action. She knew that it would be extremely dangerous to call a servant or to do anything that might arouse the officers, who had by this time gone to bed, so she went to the stables and saddled a horse herself, and galloped away in the direction of the mountains. The moon was shining when she started on this wild ride. She had in her possession passes which she had obtained from time to time for Confederate soldiers who were returning south. Without them it would have been impossible for her to have accomplished her purpose. Before she had gone a half mile she was halted by a Federal sentry. He grabbed the bridle of her horse and cried out:

“Where are you going?”

“I am going to visit a sick friend,” was the ready response.

“You can’t do it,” he cried. “You ought to know that you can’t leave this place without a pass.”

“But I have one,” she said, with an engaging smile, and drew out the piece of pasteboard.

The guard looked at it dubiously, but it was in proper form and contained the necessary signature and he grudgingly permitted her to continue on her journey.

Twice again she was halted by sentinels and each time she told the same story and underwent the same experience. Once clear of the chain of sentries she whipped her horse and hurried ahead for a distance of fifteen miles. At that time the animal was in a perfect lather and when she pulled up in front of the frame house which was the dwelling place of her friends the horse was panting and trembling from the unusual exertion. She leaped from the animal’s back and going to the door rapped on it with the butt end of her riding whip. There was no reply, so she hammered harder than ever. Presently a window in the second story was cautiously opened and a head poked out and a voice called:

“Who’s there?”

“Belle Boyd, and I have important intelligence to give to Colonel Ashby.”

“My dear Belle!” shrieked the voice from the window. “Where in the world did you come from and how did you get here?”

“Oh, I forced the sentries,” was the reply, in a matter of fact voice.

Within sixty seconds the girl was in the house and receiving refreshments and telling her strange story to her wondering friend. The horse in the meantime was taken to the stable by a negro and carefully groomed and fed. Only after these important details had been attended to was the girl permitted to tell her story.

“I must see Colonel Ashby,” she said in conclusion, “and if you can tell me where to find him I will go at once.”

She was informed that the Confederate officer and his party were in the woods about a half mile distant from the place in which they were sitting. Just as the girl was ready to go the front door was thrown open and Colonel Ashby stood before her. He looked at her as if she were a ghost and then finally burst forth in amazement:

“My God, Miss Belle, is that you? Where did you come from? Did you drop from the clouds?”

“No,” she said smilingly, “I didn’t. I came on horseback and I have some very important information.”

Whereupon she related the details of the council that had taken place in the Boyd home, and then told the story of her mad ride through the night. She concluded by handing him the cipher, which he said would be communicated to his superior officers at once.

After that she insisted on mounting her horse and returning home again. It was more than two hours’ ride, during which time she ran the blockade of the sleeping sentries with comparative success. Just at dawn when she was in sight of her home one of the sentries she was passing called out:

“Halt or I’ll shoot!”

But she did not halt. On the contrary she whipped her horse until it fairly leaped through the air. She felt that the man was leveling his gun in her direction. She lay flat on her horse’s back with her arms around his neck, and this was done in the very nick of time, for at that same moment a hot bullet came singing past her ears. That was the only serious interruption. In a few minutes she had reached the grounds surrounding the Boyd home. Fortunately no one was in sight. She hurried into the house and went to bed in her aunt’s room just at the break of dawn.

Two days later General Shields marched south with the idea of laying a trap to catch General Jackson. Once again the fearless girl determined to carry the information she possessed to her Confederate friends. Major Tyndale, at that time Provost Marshal, gave Belle Boyd and her cousin a pass to Winchester. Once there a gentleman of standing in the community called on her and handing her a package, said:

“Miss Belle, I am going to ask you to take these letters, and send them through the lines to the Confederate army. One of them is of supreme importance and I beseech you to try and get it safely to General Jackson.”

After the exercise of considerable ingenuity she managed to get a pass to Front Royal. To add to the romantic feature of the business a young Union officer, who admired the girl, offered to escort her to her destination. They went in a carriage, but before starting she made it a point to conceal the Jackson letter inside her dress. The other letters, which were of comparatively small importance, she handed to the Union officer with the remark that she would take them from him when they reached Front Royal. On the way, as she feared, they were stopped by a sentinel. The Union admirer of the Confederate spy explained that they had a pass which would permit them to proceed on their way, but the zealous sentinel insisted on searching them and was highly indignant when he discovered the compromising letters in the hands of the young man. He insisted upon confiscating them, but in the excitement forgot all about the girl, and she was permitted to go unmolested, carrying with her the precious letter intended for General Jackson.

Afterwards she laughingly expressed contrition for having involved an ardent admirer in such a serious plight, but excused herself on the ground that all was fair in war as well as in love. Fortunately, the young man, who was a perfectly loyal Northern soldier, was given the credit of having discovered the papers, which were valuable to his superior officers. Thus do we sometimes make a virtue of necessity.

After Belle Boyd had been in Front Royal for several days she learned that the Confederates were coming to that place, but she also discovered that General Banks was at Strasbourg with 4,000 men; that White was at Harper’s Ferry; Shields and Geary a short distance away, and Frémont below the valley. At a spot which was the vital point all of the separate divisions were expected to meet and coöperate in the destruction of General Jackson. She realized that the Confederates were in a most critical situation and that unless the officers in command were aware of the facts they might rush into a trap which meant possible annihilation.

With characteristic promptness she decided on her plan of action. She rushed out to warn the approaching Confederates. On that occasion she wore a dark blue dress with a fancy white apron over it which made her a shining mark for bullets. The Federal pickets fired at her but missed and a shell burst near her at one time, but she threw herself flat on the ground and thus escaped what seemed to be sure death. Presently she came within sight of the approaching Confederates and waved her bonnet as a signal.

Major Harry Douglass, whom she knew, galloped up and received from her the information, which he immediately transmitted to General Jackson. The result of all this was a rout of the Union forces.

It was in this battle of Bull Run which followed soon afterwards that General Bee, as he rallied his men, shouted:

“There’s Jackson standing like a stonewall!”

From that time, as has been aptly said, the name he received in a baptism of fire displaced that which he had received in a baptism of water.

The number of Union men engaged in the battle of Bull Run was about 18,000, and the number of Confederates somewhat greater.

Soon after the engagement the young woman received the following letter, which she prized until the hour of her death.

Miss Belle Boyd:

I thank you for myself and for the army, for the immense service you have rendered your country to-day.

Hastily, I am your friend,
T. J. Jackson, C. S. A.

Shortly before the close of the war Belle Boyd was captured and imprisoned. She escaped and made her way to England. In London she attracted the attention of George Augustus Sala, the famous writer. She had been married in the meantime and her husband, Lieutenant Hardage of the Confederate army, was among those taken prisoner by the Union forces.

While abroad she became financially embarrassed; indeed, at one time she was reduced to actual want. A stranger in a strange land, sick in mind and body, she was in a pitiable condition. Mr. Sala wrote a letter to the London Times explaining her sad state and roundly abusing the United States Government which had, he said, not only imprisoned her husband but was also “barbarous enough to place him in irons.”

British sympathies were very strongly with the South at that time, and as a result of this plea provision was made for the immediate wants of the famous spy. After the war she disappeared from the public gaze, and some years later died in comparative obscurity.

III
THE INDIAN SCOUT WHO WAS THE HERO OF KING PHILIP’S WAR

It is a curious fact that Job Kattenanit, one of the Praying Indians of Deer Island, in Boston Harbor, should have emerged from King Philip’s war with more glory than any other man, either white or red, who participated in that bloody contest.

Like the historic Biblical character from whom he received his name, Job was a sorely afflicted man. He was among the first group of Indians in that section of the United States to accept the Christian religion, and it was this fact, and in order to distinguish them from the other red men, that Kattenanit and his companions received the designation of the Praying Indians.

It is regrettable to record, however, that the excesses of some of the other natives had caused an indiscriminate hatred of the Indians throughout New England. They were regarded as wild beasts who should be shot and killed without mercy. It was while this feeling was at its height that Job Kattenanit and eleven of his companions were arrested on a charge of being concerned in the murder of seven white men. They were captured in the town of Lancaster and brought to Boston, tied “neck and neck,” as the practice was in those primitive days. The evidence against them was of the flimsiest character, and it was only through the efforts of Captain John Gookin, a magistrate who felt a special interest in the Indians, that their lives were spared and they were condemned to imprisonment on Deer Island.

In the meantime King Philip, the Indian chieftain, was spreading terror among the white people. He was jealous of their gradual encroachment upon what he conceived to be his domain and he planned to destroy them. He was a man of sagacity, although said to be wanting in physical courage, and he gradually combined all of the Indian tribes into one strong confederation and waited for a chance to strike the decisive blow.

It came at Swansea on Sunday, July 4, 1675. The settlers were going to church when the Indians suddenly burst upon them. But these pioneers were both pious and prepared, and taking up arms they routed their assailants. Philip and his warriors then hunted the settlers in the Connecticut valley, burning down their homes and subjecting the people to the most atrocious forms of cruelty. In the spring the war broke out anew along a frontier of three hundred miles and to within twenty miles of Boston. The Indians had remained quiet for a long time after the initial outbreak—so quiet that the whites were thoroughly alarmed. They knew the ruthless nature of their foes and they feared the consequences to the women and children if they should be taken unawares.

It was at this critical stage of affairs that Major Gookin—he had been promoted—bethought himself of the Praying Indians on Deer Island. It was absolutely necessary to know something of the plans of King Philip and his bloodthirsty redskins. If a white man went into their camp he was certain to be scalped and tortured. If an Indian could be induced to act as a spy he might save the whites from a wholesale massacre.

The eloquent Major visited Deer Island and presented these facts to the prisoners and called for volunteers. He said that a service of this kind would not only secure the release of the Praying Indians, but would win for them the lasting friendship of the white people.

“I go,” said one handsome brave, rising and lifting his hand solemnly in mid-air. “I go, not for reward, but to save the palefaces from death.”

The Indian was Job Kattenanit. He was tall and perfectly erect, with piercing black eyes and a grave, almost sorrowful countenance. There was a suggestion of nobility in his bearing. In short, he might well have passed for the original of Deerfoot, so vividly pictured by James Fenimore Cooper.

Major Gookin recognized him at once. He knew the Indians personally, and he had a special friendship for this straight shouldered chap. He rushed over and gripped him by the hand.

“Job,” he exclaimed, “the white people shall know of this and in time it will help your people.”

A mist passed before the bright eyes of the Indian, and he gave a gesture as if to sweep the suggestion aside.

“White man cruel to Indian,” he rejoined, “but the red man must return good for evil.”

As they were about to leave another Indian rose in his place and said:

“Me go, too—me go with Job.”

This was James Quannapohit, a native in whom Major Gookin also had implicit confidence. After deliberation he decided to accept the services of both volunteers. They were taken aside and given careful directions.

That night Job and James were brought secretly from Deer Island and set free—according to arrangement. In order to avoid difficulties they had been first escorted beyond the British lines.

From that point they journeyed alone and on foot. It was a long walk, and when they reached their destination they were footsore, hungry and almost in rags. It was as they wished. They bore the appearance of fugitives, of escaped prisoners. It was daybreak when they arrived in the camp of the Nipmuck Indians. They threw themselves on their faces and begged for food and drink. The amazed redskins who surrounded them wanted to know who they were and what they were doing in the camp of the Nipmuck Indians. Job, who acted as spokesman, insisted upon refreshments and said he would tell his story to some one in authority. After their wants had been satisfied they were escorted to Mantampe, a chief Sachem of the tribe.

“What you do here?” he demanded.

“We have escaped from the clutches of the white man,” replied Job in his native tongue, “and we came to you for protection. The white man of Lancaster came and took the red man prisoner. He charged us with murdering his squaws and he gave us no chance to defend ourselves.”

“Tell me more,” said the chief Sachem, deeply interested.

Job did as he was requested and he was able to do so all the more eloquently because he was giving an account of some things that had actually occurred to the Praying Indians. He said they had been accused by David, a fellow savage, of being concerned in the murder of the whites. But he added that the manner in which David was forced to make this charge robbed it of all value. He related how Colonel Mosely and a scouting party captured David and tied him to a tree; how with six muskets pointed at his head he was told to confess or die. To save his life he named eleven men he understood were present at the murder, though he himself was not there, and knew nothing about it. The men were put on trial, and so great and indiscriminate was the popular feeling against the natives that several of them were condemned.

“But you are alive,” grinned the Sachem.

Job admitted the soft impeachment and explained how he and his companions had been imprisoned on Deer Island. He said that he and James Quannapohit had managed to escape, but slyly enough neglected to tell the Sachem that the escape had been arranged by their English friends. He concluded by saying that they had come to the camp of the Nipmuck Indians to get the lay of the land, “so that they might advise the friends they had left if it would be possible for them also to escape.”

The Sachem accepted the story of Job and his companion and they were given the liberty of the camp. The two Praying Indians kept their eyes and ears open and learned much. Mantampe was undoubtedly in command of a large force. Job met many of the Indians, who were, as a rule, able fighting men, straight as arrows, very tall and active.

Three squaws who were in the camp interested and amused the spies. One was a very proud dame. She spent the best part of each day in dressing herself in all the colors of the rainbow; she powdered her hair and painted her face, wore numberless necklaces, had jewels in her hair and bracelets on her wrists. When she finished her toilet she sat down and spent the remainder of the day in making girdles of wampum and beads.

James Quannapohit found great favor in the eyes of Mantampe. He made him share his tent with him and insisted upon his repeating the story of his escape from Deer Island. During the course of these talks James learned that the Nipmuck Indians contemplated a raid on the white settlers. They proposed to burn Lancaster and then attack other towns. The method of the raid was not made clear. One morning Mantampe called James before him.

“Son,” he said in substance, “I am about to take a journey for the purpose of visiting the big chief, King Philip. If all goes well I may take you with me.”

This alarmed James. He dreaded the idea of going further into the Indian country, perhaps to a point where it would be impossible for him to make his escape. Besides that he had a good reason for wishing to avoid a meeting with the king. He had once fought against Philip at Mount Hope. He had taken a conspicuous part in the battle and he knew that if the King recognized him he would be shot.

The next morning he arose before any one was stirring, and left the camp. He urged Job to go along with him but the other spy refused to do so.

“But you will be killed,” urged James, “when they discover my absence. They will at once suspect that you are a spy, and that means death.”

Job shook his head.

“You go,” he said. “I don’t blame you for that. But I am going to stay for a while. It may mean life or death, but I am willing to take my chances.”

Nothing that James could say would shake the determination of Job. So the younger Indian started on the return journey to Boston alone. There had been severe storms and the snow lay deep on the ground. It was necessary for the Indian to wear heavy snowshoes and this made traveling all the more difficult.

When the Indian spy reached Boston he had a tale of unparalleled hardships to relate to his white friends. But more important than that was his story of the plans of the Indians against the settlers in and around Lancaster. He was highly praised for the effective work he had done and was showered with attentions by the white men and their families. For the first time since the beginning of what is popularly known as King Philip’s war an Indian was treated as though he were a human being.

Indeed, it is no exaggeration to state that the exploit of the two Indians did more to reinstate the redskins in the good graces of the whites than anything that had occurred in years.

But curiously enough the settlers did little or nothing to protect themselves against the expected attack. The very warning which should have put them on their guard seemed to lull them into a false sense of security. There were two reasons for this. The first one was that the suspected danger was comparatively remote—a matter of weeks in fact. Another and more important one was the desire to get further and fuller information from the other Indian scout. Job was the shrewder and more capable of the two messengers. It was just possible that the abrupt departure of James might arouse the suspicion of the savages and cause them to entirely revise their plans. James was closely questioned concerning his companion.

“Why didn’t he come back with you?” he was asked.

James shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

“He very stubborn man. Have his own way. No listen to poor James.”

“Do you think he intends to come back?”

At this suggestion of possible disloyalty on the part of his friend the Indian became very indignant. He was so angry that he found it impossible to express himself coherently. But his manner, if not his words, perfectly satisfied the questioner of the perfect good faith of Job. As a matter of fact it was never seriously doubted and the white man who propounded the query felt ashamed at having put the unworthy suspicion into words.

In the meantime Job found himself in an embarrassing and really dangerous situation. With the flight of James the savages, for the first time, became skeptical concerning the motives of the two visitors. The chief Sachem sent for Job and put him through a severe cross-examination. But Job was shrewd and told them a cock-and-bull story that satisfied their curiosity. As a result of this he was treated with even more consideration than when he first arrived in camp. He was fearful lest the Sachem should want him to accompany him on the proposed visit to King Philip. He knew that to go before the big Chief would be taking his life in his hands. Finally, to his great joy, the Sachem decided that he should not go on the trip.

The next three days were days of great anxiety to the spy. He knew that the emissary to the King would bring final plans for the attack on the whites and he was fearful lest anything should happen to deprive him of this much needed information. So he exerted himself to the utmost in order to keep the good will of the savages. As a result of this they virtually took him to their bosoms. In speaking of this afterwards he said that he felt no compunctions of conscience. He did not feel that he was betraying them but rather that he was engaged in an honest attempt to save human life.

He took part in their amusements, which helped to while away the time. One of the most popular of the games was called “hunt the button,” a diversion somewhat akin to that which is enjoyed by children the world over. This was played at night when the natives, in paint and buckskin, seated themselves around a tepee, with the fire blazing bright in their faces, as they swung their hands in time with a rhythmic chant. This was indulged in by both sexes. Also they played the game of “deer-foot.” In this a number of cylindrical bones, usually taken from the foot of the deer, and perforated with several holes around their sides, were strung on a cord, which had at one end several strands of beads and at the other a long needle. The object was to toss the string, with the beads upon it, in such a way as to catch in the point of the needle, which was retained in the hand, any designated one of the bones or bead strands.

KING PHILIP, OR METACOMET.

But presently the Sachem returned from his visit to the King and from the air of activity which prevailed Job realized that something important was on hand. It did not take him long to find out that that something was war. Clubs that were armed with jagged teeth of stone were brought from their hiding places and sharpened. Javelins, lances and arrows became very much in evidence. The arrows were most numerous. They were made of hard wood and with a feather from the eagle. These various weapons were not unknown to Job, of course, but his own tribe was composed of more peace-loving Indians and they were not in the habit of using the more destructive weapons.

Finally one night the Sachem gathered the most important men of the tribe about him and outlined the plans of King Philip. Job, who was still in the confidence of the savages, was permitted to hear all that was said. The proposal was shocking, even to a redskin. The intention was to destroy the whites at one blow, if that were possible. The day and the hour at which the descent was to be made upon Lancaster was fixed and the method of attack outlined. This was news indeed, and vastly more important than that which had been carried to Boston by James.

Job Kattenanit knew that the hour had come to act. With haste he would have time to warn the threatened settlers, but with not a minute to spare. Creeping away, he made for the edge of the camp. Fortunately most of the Indians—aside from those who were attending the council of war—were asleep. He passed one sentinel unobserved and gained the fringe of the encampment in safety. The road to Boston was familiar to him and he counted on reaching there by dusk on the evening of February 8th.

But just as he struck the main road leading to his destination there was a cry of anger and dismay from the Nipmuck camp.

His flight had been discovered.

Instead of halting he redoubled his speed. From time to time he heard savage cries and he knew that he was being pursued. The thought of giving up never once entered his mind. It was too late to retreat now. The Nipmuck Indians had been credulous enough, but it would be impossible to deceive them any longer. Job was in fine physical condition and he ran with the swiftness of a deer. But his enemies were equally fleet-footed and it seemed only a question of time when he would be overtaken. Nearer and nearer came the footsteps in the rear. He felt that there must be a number of Indians in the party, but evidently they did not have time to give a general alarm.

Just when he was congratulating himself on the possibility of outrunning his pursuers an arrow whizzed past his head. This was a new danger and one that he had not anticipated. He paused for a second and turned to look at the men who were after him. Instantly a well-directed arrow struck him in the chest within an inch of the region of the heart.

A heavy blanket covered the fleeing redskin, and with that momentary pause and turn the arrow had penetrated the covering. But, as by a miracle, it went no further. The Praying Indian wore a metal charm on his breast, suspended by a string fastened about his neck. That saved his life.

In that trying moment the shrewd Indian made his resolution. To pull the arrow out and run ahead again only meant postponing the inevitable. Instead of that, he paused motionless for a second, then swayed to and fro, and fell flat on his back.

Everything depended upon the success of this ruse. It was, perhaps, half a minute before the Nipmuck Indians came up, and when they did they regarded the motionless body with something like awe. Job suppressed his breathing as much as possible. Two of the pursuers engaged in an animated conversation, and finally turning, retraced their steps, leaving the spy for dead.

He lay there perfectly quiet until he was sure they were out of sight. Then he jumped up and resumed his interrupted flight. The story of that journey through a wilderness in the most inclement season of the year should rank with the classics of adventure. But only the savage himself knew what he was compelled to undergo, and he never spoke of it afterwards.

He arrived at Major Gookin’s house late on the night of February 9th. His feet were bruised and bleeding from the long trip and he was faint from weakness on account of exposure and want of food. All of the inmates at the Gookin dwelling were asleep and Job had to rap repeatedly on the door to awaken them. Presently the Major came downstairs and the meeting between the two—white man and the red—was most affecting.

The tidings he brought were startling. It was evident that it would only be a question of hours before the settlers were attacked. Major Gookin did not return to his bed that night. He dispatched messengers to all of the surrounding towns. In an incredibly short time troops were marching from everywhere to the aid of the threatened town. Captain Wadsworth, at Marlborough, received the news at daybreak and started for Lancaster at once. Others did the same thing.

The savages came over four hundred strong. Re-enforcements added to this number. The white men were not so numerous, but they fought with a courage born of desperation. The town was partially destroyed by fire and a few of the people taken prisoners by the Indians. Had it not been for the warning of Job Kattenanit there would have been a wholesale massacre and Lancaster would have been left in ashes.

That was the beginning of the end. Driven to drastic measures by the atrocities of the savages, the settlers hunted down the Indians like wild beasts. King Philip was driven from one hiding place to another, going finally to his old home on Mount Hope, Rhode Island, where he was shot by a faithless Indian, August 12, 1676.

But Job Kattenanit, the Praying Indian, did more than any white man to break up the reign of terror caused by the savages, and even though history fails to mention the fact, he was the real hero of King Philip’s War.

IV
HOW THE SUICIDE OF A STAFF OFFICER ONCE AVERTED WAR BETWEEN AUSTRIA AND RUSSIA

Could the preservation of the life of an officer of the Austrian army on May 26, 1913, have prevented the devastating war in Europe that followed? And if the same man had lived would it have precipitated a war at that time between Austria and Russia?

These questions may remain unanswered to the end of time, but there are students of history who do not hesitate to give an affirmative reply to each of the momentous queries.

The story of Colonel Albert Riddle—that is near enough to his real name to make it clear to those who were within the inner circle and far enough away to protect the feelings of his descendants who are still living—is one of the strangest in history. In its way it takes its place with the Mystery of the Man in the Iron Mask, although in the present case there was never any question of the identity of the victim or of the fact of his death.

Colonel Riddle was connected with the general staff of the Eighth Army Corps. He was one of the favorites of the Austrian Court. He was young, handsome, attractive and with a dash and go about him that made him a general favorite. He had won an enviable record for bravery in battle, and was considered an efficient officer in every sense of the term.

Presently the time came when it was desirable to learn something concerning the secrets of the Russian army plans. Austria, like all other great countries in Europe, had any number of spies, but very few of them were available for the character of work which would be necessary in order to learn the plans of the higher military officers of the Russian Empire. It was in this emergency that Colonel Riddle was called upon. He had a young soldier’s love of adventure and he eagerly volunteered for the delicate and difficult task. He was well supplied with money and authority and eventually he went to St. Petersburg, where he posed as a sort of military attaché of the Austrian embassy. The social side of life in St. Petersburg attracted him immensely and while he devoted part of his time to the work for which he had been assigned, he nevertheless found numerous opportunities for satisfying his love for the pleasant things of life.

Indeed, so genial did he find his surroundings, that he had little or no desire to return home. He became very popular with the ladies of the Russian Court, and participated in many of the social events for which that capital was noted.

But everything has its end, and finally the day came when it was deemed necessary for him to return to Vienna. He reached Austria in due time and made a comprehensive report of his discoveries, a report that was considered acceptable by the higher officers of the Austrian army. After that he retired to his home in Prague, Bohemia. He had many friends there and indulged in what was regarded as a well earned rest. His activities—his military activities—were suspended for the time being, and this high grade spy enjoyed life with more zest than is granted to the ordinary or commonplace person.

But suddenly and as unexpectedly as a bolt from the blue sky came the report that Colonel Riddle was suspected of treason to his country.

He was summoned to Vienna to defend himself from the charges. Now whether they were true or not never has been and never will be definitely determined. At all events the military and social circles of the gayest capital in the world were filled with stories which were not creditable to the fascinating and really popular colonel. These stories, it may be stated with surety, lost nothing in the telling, and as they went from mouth to mouth they assumed proportions which represented Riddle as being one of the most marvelous deceivers of his time.

In the meanwhile the talk took on a new twist. It was contended that if Colonel Riddle lived to be prosecuted for treason the revelations at his trial would make it impossible for Austria to maintain friendly relations with Russia. The gossip said more than that; it said that not only relations with Russia would be broken, but that the bonds between Austria and one of her fully trusted allies would be severely strained. As a matter of fact, there is no telling to what extent Germany and Austria might have found reason to suspect each other had Colonel Riddle gone on the stand and made the revelations which would have been necessary in order for him to defend himself on the charge of treason. He was accused by unknown accusers of not only giving military secrets of Austria and Germany to Russia, but also of having betrayed to Russia the Russian officers who were selling Russia’s military secrets to Austria and Germany. Those who were acquainted with the man were vehement in denying his guilt of any such double faced dealings. At all events, one of the secrets of this talk was that Austria and Germany very materially revised their plans for mobilizing their forces along the Russian frontier.

In the meantime, while Colonel Riddle was in Vienna preparing for the court-martial, the Government had its agents in Bohemia collecting evidence to be used against the accused man. Two of the secret service men who were in Prague burst into his room for the purpose of securing any information that might be obtained there. At first it looked as if they were to have their labors for their pains. Nothing out of the ordinary was found. It was a sort of apartment that might be expected to belong to a comparatively wealthy and popular young man. There were trophies from all parts of the world; souvenirs of his stay at St. Petersburg—this, it must be remembered, was before the days that the capital of Russia assumed the unfamiliar name of Petrograd—and other interesting places. There were numerous private letters, some of them tender love missives. But at the last moment the secret service men discovered a private desk in a corner of the room which, when broken open, disclosed a number of papers of an incriminating character. It was positively declared at the time that if certain of these papers ever became public nothing could prevent a war between Austria and Russia.

And here another curious twist is introduced in this strangest of strange stories. It was asserted in a way that gave it the appearance of verity that some of the papers, had they come to light, would have ruptured, if not entirely broken, the relations between Austria and Germany. Even at that time these two countries were looked upon as the Siamese twins among the nations of Europe. The Austrian authorities were seriously alarmed. They could not contemplate a struggle between their own country and their German ally with equanimity. The question was what to do under these critical circumstances. One of the first things was to take charge of all of the possessions of the unfortunate man. Everything was seized—not only the official papers, but private letters, tailors’ bills, photographs, and all other articles that were found in the room. Not only were the papers seized and sequestered, but his apartments were sealed, thus concluding the first act in the tragic drama.

But the most serious part of the business was still to come. The papers were out of the way; there was no documentary evidence in the case, but the man still remained, and what he might do or say was the unknown quantity in the problem. The strangest part of the queer affair was that in spite of all of these charges and counter charges against the fascinating colonel he was still looked upon as a most patriotic person. It was assumed—and probably with correctness—that while he had been indiscreet and possibly blameworthy, he never really intended to betray his own country. Anyhow the cold facts remained. It was a condition and not a theory which confronted those in authority. The court-martial had been ordered. It was fixed for a certain day. If it took place according to schedule it might strike the spark which would cause a terrific explosion in Europe. If it were postponed, how could the postponement be explained? And even if it were, there would still remain the man who had been indiscreet and who might be again.

It was at this stage of events that Colonel Riddle, who was kept in strict confinement, received a call from two of his fellow officers. They smoked and chatted, and even had a glass of wine together. All of the facts were placed before him in an orderly manner. He was shown that he could not escape under any circumstances and that if he should live, the life of the empire might be threatened. It was the existence of one or the other. He was told, as he knew very well, that any attempt to defend himself would place Austria in the position of having attempted to steal the military secrets of Russia, and further, of being faithless to Germany. Finally, about midnight, they parted, and as the officers left the room one of them with a significant gesture handed Colonel Riddle a loaded pistol.

The next morning when the guard made his regular rounds his eyes met a shocking sight. Colonel Riddle lay prostrate on the floor with a bullet wound in his forehead. The pistol with which the deed was committed lay by his side.

There was much regret, of course. The highest officials of the Austrian Court were heard to express sorrow at the untimely taking off of the popular young officer. His high standing, his unusual ability and his bright prospects for the future only made the tragedy the sadder.

A five line cablegram told the story to America. It is doubtful if one person in a thousand either read it or paid any attention to it. It was simply reported as the suicide of a soldier who was about to be placed on trial for treason. What could be more natural than that a man in the face of impending disgrace—especially when he had been a trusted officer—should take his life? Such things had happened before. Why should it excite any comment?

In the early part of the following month there were whispers concerning the real facts that lay behind the curious story of Colonel Riddle’s suicide. These facts came to light little by little, and finally were woven into a coherent and connected story. Many friends of the dead soldier, who knew that he had fought bravely for his country and had acted as a spy in her interests, also knew that he had become a martyr for the Fatherland.

One of the results of the tragic affair was a reorganization of the entire spy system of the Austrian army. Secrets which had hitherto been known to a score of men were now confined to a comparative few. Every man was placed under suspicion, and even spies whose fidelity had never been questioned before were subjected to the closest scrutiny of other spies whose existence was unknown to them. At the same time the German secret service was reorganized and put in position where the likelihood of a betrayal of state secrets was exceedingly improbable. Even those who were unwilling to believe that Colonel Riddle had been guilty of treason admitted that the looseness of the spy system placed it within the power of many men to betray those for whom they were supposed to be working.

“The Government,” said one officer, alluding to the tragedy that had just occurred, “found it imperatively necessary to close the mouth of one of its own sons. I hope the necessity for such a thing will never occur again.”

Germany has never expressed itself officially in this matter, but those who know a thing or two about military methods may be sure that the important officers in that country fully approved of the manner in which this unfortunate incident was handled. Experience has proved that there is no way to keep military secrets, that there is no protection against the weakness or cupidity of your own spies. Only one man can be trusted with a mobilization plan, and that man is the chief of the general staff. If he fails it is madness to put him on trial. The only reasonable thing to do under the circumstances is to have him efface himself from the earth. Exile is impossible. Death is the only remedy.

Such were the arguments that were used a little over two years ago in order to justify the Riddle case. Since that time dispatches have been coming from Germany, Austria, Italy and various other countries reporting vaguely that documents have been sequestered at the postoffices in these places and that those responsible for their existence have been subjected to drastic military discipline. That, it may be safe to say, means that those who know too much have had to answer with their lives for their indiscretion.

In a short while after the death of Colonel Riddle the incident was forgotten, and so far as people are concerned was relegated to the lumber room of unsolved mysteries—and to that hazy and uncertain section of history which is filled with stories that everybody believes and no one is willing to affirm. But it seems curious indeed that two years after a life had been sacrificed in order to avert war, the nations of Europe should be engaged in a death grapple.

War, like politics, makes strange bedfellows. The fate of nations often rests on the tossing of a coin. Human lives are but the pawns with which the kings and emperors play the game. This was pathetically illustrated in the case of Colonel Albert Riddle. By snuffing out his own life he prevented war between two great empires. And yet, as if by the decree of Nemesis, the Goddess of Justice, these same countries were soon clutching at the throat of one another.

V
THE ROMANTIC SIDE OF MAJOR ANDRÉ’S UNSUCCESSFUL EXPLOIT

All the world loves a lover, and the fact that the unfortunate Major John André was engaged to be married to a charming English girl at the time of his execution helped to place him in something like a romantic light before the world. He had another advantage. The blackness of the treason of Benedict Arnold made André shine by comparison, so that while the American was regarded with horror and contempt everywhere, the unhappy fate of the young Englishman excited universal sympathy.

It was in 1769 that André met Miss Honora Sneyd in Litchfield, England. It was a case of love at first sight, ardent and impetuous on both sides. But, alas, as is usual, the course of true love did not run smoothly. The match was disapproved by Miss Sneyd’s father, and the young man was told to keep away from the house of his adored one. To make assurance doubly sure he was sent to his father’s counting house in London. He tried hard to accustom himself to office drudgery, but in spite of his best intentions the face of Honora kept popping up from amidst the rows of figures, and upsetting his calculations.

His was an adventurous spirit, and in 1771 he tossed aside his ledgers and day books to accept a commission in a regiment bound for America. There was an affecting scene when he parted from Miss Sneyd and she gave him her portrait as a souvenir. He plighted his troth anew and promised that the picture should never part from him under any circumstances—a promise that was kept with pathetic fidelity.

Before he had been in America long André, by reason of his courage and intelligence, rose to the position of aide-de-camp to Sir Henry Clinton, commander-in-chief of the British forces. It was at this juncture that Benedict Arnold, smarting under supposed wrongs, made a proposition to the British to betray to them the post at West Point, of which he was in command. It was regarded as the key to the American position and General Clinton designated Major André as the man to conduct the negotiations with the traitor Arnold. The importance of this position was equaled by its danger.

The conspiracy between Arnold and André had been carried on by means of correspondence for quite a while. They wrote under fictitious names, and naturally the greatest secrecy was observed. But finally the time came when it was necessary to hold a personal meeting in order to bring the treason to a head. Major André at that time held the position of adjutant general in the British army, and it was at Arnold’s request that he was detailed to meet the traitorous general for the purpose of settling all the details. On the 20th of September, 1780, André went on board the British sloop of war Vulture with Colonel Beverly Robinson, and proceeded up the Hudson with a view of holding an interview with Arnold. There is a strong feeling, or at least circumstantial evidence, which indicates that Robinson was partially responsible for bringing Arnold to the state of mind where he was willing to sacrifice his country in order to satisfy his own wounded vanity. At all events, they made the trip together and on the night of the 21st a boat was sent by Arnold to the Vulture which brought André to the shore about six miles below Stony Point.

In a secluded spot and after midnight the conspirators met and prepared the plans by which the American cause was to be betrayed. Daylight appeared and still the conference went on. It was suggested that it would be desirable to have breakfast, and at Arnold’s invitation André consented to accompany him to the house of Joshua Smith, which was about two miles below the meeting place. They sat there for a long time and presently the booming of cannon was heard and they saw that the Vulture had weighed anchor and was proceeding down the river. This was due to the fact that Colonel Livingston of the American army thought that she was too near the American outposts, and with characteristic promptness he brought cannon to bear on the vessel and compelled her to descend the river.

This interfered seriously with the scheme that had been agreed upon between the Englishman and the American. Plans of the American works, their armament, the number of troops they contained and other important details were handed by Arnold to André. To make sure that he should not lose the precious papers Major André took off his boots and placed the documents between his stockings and his feet. As it was evident that André would not be able to reach the Vulture Arnold furnished him with a horse and gave him a pass which directed the guards to permit him to go where he pleased on the ground that he was engaged in public business. A similar pass was given to Joshua Smith who had acted as host to the spy and the traitor. Major André passed the entire day at Smith’s house in the hope and expectation of being able to get aboard the Vulture at night, but when evening arrived Smith became frightened and declined to row out to the Vulture. He proposed instead to cross the river with André and then see that he was put on the road by which he might return to New York. The Englishman was greatly disappointed, but was finally induced to throw Smith’s overcoat over his uniform, and shortly before dusk they started to go across at Kings Ferry. They succeeded in making about eight miles on the other side when they were stopped by an American sentinel. Arnold’s pass satisfied the officer in command but he warned them against proceeding any farther at night.

THE MEETING BETWEEN BENEDICT ARNOLD AND MAJOR ANDRÉ

They remained at a farmhouse until morning and by that time had now approached a portion of the country some thirty miles in extent which lay between the lines of the opposing armies and was considered neutral ground. After proceeding three miles farther toward New York André and his host breakfasted at a farmhouse and then parted. Smith returned home and André continued on his way to New York, confident that he was past all danger and that it was only a question of time when the treason of Arnold would be completed.

He was going through a wooded glen when he was suddenly confronted by three men, the first of whom was clothed in a manner which might suggest his connection with the British army.

“Good morning,” exclaimed André, imprudently. “Gentlemen, I hope you belong to our party.”

“What party?” asked the leader of the trio.

“The lower party,” said André, indicating the camp of the British army.

“We do,” said the leader, but with a significant look at his companions.

The young Englishman was now entirely off his guard and declared himself to be a British officer. He said that he had been up the country on most important business and must not be detained on any account. He drew out his gold watch as evidence of his statement, but to his surprise, the foremost of the young men clutched him by the shoulder and exclaimed:

“You are our prisoner!”

It afterwards became known that the three men were farmers of the neighborhood, their names being John Paulding, Isaac Van Wort and David Williams. Paulding happened by chance to be wearing an overcoat that had been left on his place by a British soldier, and it was this uniform that had misled André.

The English major was very much exercised by this time and now remembered his pass. He exhibited the paper that had been given to him by General Arnold, saying:

“You see that I am all right. This pass permits me to go through the lines.”

Paulding, however, was convinced that there was something wrong. He seized the bridle of André’s horse and compelled him to dismount and then subjected him to a very close search. They took off his boots and his stockings and found the concealed papers. Paulding read them carefully and as he came across the incriminating words exclaimed:

“My God, he is a spy!”

The Englishman used all of his persuasive powers on his captors, but in vain. He offered them any amount of money if they would release him, but they refused and conducted their prisoner to Lieutenant Colonel Jameson, who was in command of the post at New Castle. He in turn instantly sent the papers found in André’s possession by express to General Washington, who was then returning from a visit to the French at Hartford.

By a curious chain of circumstances Washington was returning with the members of his own military family, including General Lafayette and General Knox. On the morning of the 25th of September he sent a messenger to General Arnold saying that the party would breakfast with him on that day. As they approached Arnold’s headquarters at the Robinson house Washington turned aside from the direct route in order to visit the defenses on the east side of the Hudson. Lafayette, with the proverbial politeness of the French, suggested that Mrs. Arnold would be waiting breakfast for them.

“Ah,” replied Washington, “you young men are all in love with Mrs. Arnold. I see that you are eager to be with her as soon as possible. Go and breakfast with her and tell her not to wait for me. I must ride down and examine the redoubts on this side of the river. I will be with you shortly.”

His request was complied with. Lafayette and his friends found Mrs. Arnold—who was the famous Peggy Shippen—as usual, bright, gay and fascinating. Arnold himself was strangely grave and thoughtful. In the very midst of the breakfast a horseman galloped to the door and gave a letter to Arnold, which stated that André was a prisoner and that the papers found in his boots had been forwarded to General Washington. Arnold was compelled to act quickly in this crisis and he gave remarkable evidence of quickness of mind.

“Gentlemen,” he said to his guests, “I am compelled to leave you for a time and hope that I may be excused.”

From the breakfast room he hurried to Mrs. Arnold’s apartments, and when she came to him in response to his summons explained his position, saying: “I must fly instantly. My life depends on my reaching the British lines without detection.”

It was perhaps a few hours after this that the letters and papers which told the story of Arnold’s perfidy were handed to Washington. Washington read them calmly and, calling Lafayette and Knox, told them the story, adding sadly:

“Who can we trust now?”

Hot on the heels of this came one from Major André explaining his position and saying that he had been betrayed into the vile condition of an enemy in disguise within the American posts. He asked that in any rigor policy might dictate he should not be branded with anything dishonorable, as he considered himself a messenger in the service of the king and not an involuntary impostor. He said that he wrote to vindicate his fame and not to solicit security. To this letter Washington made no reply.

On the 26th of September Major Tallmadge, having André in custody, arrived at the Robinson house. General Washington declined to see the prisoner but gave orders that he should be treated with every courtesy and civility consistent with his absolute security.

The charming personality of the prisoner won for him the personal regard of all with whom he was brought into contact. His immediate jailor said that it often drew tears from his eyes to find André so agreeable in conversation on different subjects while he—the American officer—was reflecting on the future fate of the young Englishman.

While Tallmadge was on the way with André to the American headquarters their conversation became very frank and their relations friendly. Presently André asked Tallmadge with what light he would be regarded by General Washington at a military tribunal. The American hesitated, but when André repeated the question he said: