CHAPTER XII.
“The owlet loves the gloom of night,
The lark salutes the day,
The timid dove will coo at hand—
But falcous soar away.”
Song in Duo.
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In a country, settled like these states, by a people
who fled their native land, and much-loved
fire sides, victims to their tender consciences and
religious zeal, none of the decencies and solemnities
of a christian death are dispensed with, when
circumstances will admit of their exercise. The
good woman of the house was a strict adherent to
the forms of the church to which she belonged;
and, having herself been awakened to a sense of
her depravity, by the ministry of the divine who
harangued the people of the adjoining parish, she
thought that it was from his exhortations only, that
salvation could be meted out to the short-lived
hopes of Henry Wharton. Not that the kind-hearted
matron was so ignorant of the doctrines
of the religion which she professed, as to depend,
theoretically, on mortal aid for protection; but she
had, to use her own phrase, “set so long under
the preaching of good Mr.—,” that she had
unconsciously imbibed a practical reliance on his
assistance for that, which, her faith should have
taught her, could come from the Deity alone.—
With her, the consideration of death was at all
times awful; and the instant that the sentence of
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the prisoner was promulgated, she despatched
Cæsar, mounted on one of her husband's best
horses, in quest of her clerical monitor. This
step had been taken without consulting either
Henry or his friends, and it was only when the
services of Cæsar were required upon some domestic
emergency, that she explained the nature
of his absence. The youth heard her, at first,
with an unconquerable reluctance to admit of
such a spiritual guide; but as our view of the
things of this life becomes less vivid, our
prejudices and habits cease to retain their influence;
and a civil bow of thanks was finally given
in requital of the considerate care of the wellmeaning
woman.
The black returned early from his expedition,
and as well as could be gathered from his somewhat
incoherent narrative, a minister of God
might be expected to arrive in the course of the
day. The interruption that we mentioned in our
preceding chapter, was occasioned by the entrance
of the landlady. At the intercession of Dunwoodie,
orders had been given to the sentinel who
guarded the door of Henry's room, that the members
of the prisoner's family should, at all times,
have free access to his apartment: Cæsar was included
in this arrangement, as a matter of convenience,
by the officer in command; but strict
inquiry and examination were made into the errand
of every other applicant for admission. The
Major had, however, included himself among the
relatives of the British officer; and one pledge,
that no rescue should be attempted, was given
in his name for them all. A short conversation
was passing between the woman of the house
and the corporal of the guard, before the door
that the sentinel had already opened in
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anticipation of the decision of his non-commissioned
commandant.
“Would you refuse the consolations of religion
to a fellow-creature, about to suffer death?” said
the matron with earnest zeal. “Would you
plunge a soul into the fiery furnace, and a minister
at hand to point out the straight and narrow
path.”
“I'll tell you what, good woman,” returned the
corporal, gently pushing her away; “I've no notion
of my back being a highway for any man to
walk to heaven upon.—A pretty figure I should
make at the pickets, for disobeying my orders—
Just step down and ask Lieutenant Mason, and
you may bring in the whole congregation. We
have not taken the guard from the foot-soldiers
but an hour, and I shouldn't like to have it said
that we know less of our duty than the militia.”
“Admit the woman,” said Dunwoodie, sternly;
observing, for the first time, that one of his own
corps was on post.
The corporal raised his hand to his cap and fell
back in silence; the soldier stood to his arms, and
the matron entered.
“Here is a reverend gentleman below, come to
soothe the parting soul, in the place of our own
divine, who is engaged with an appointment that
could not be put aside—'tis to bury old Mr.—.”
“Show him in,” said Henry, with feverish impatience.
“But will the sentinel let him pass? I would
not wish a friend of Mr. — to be rudely stopped
on the threshold, and he a stranger.”
All eyes were now turned on Dunwoodie, who,
looking at his watch, spoke a few words with
Henry, in an under tone, and hastened from the
apartment, followed by Frances. The subject of
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their conversation, was a wish expressed by the
prisoner for a clergyman of his own persuasion, and
a promise from the Major that one should be sent
from Fish-kill town, through which he was about
to pass, on his way to the ferry to intercept the expected
return of Harper. Mason soon made his
bow at the door, and willingly complied with the
wishes of the landlady, and the divine was invited
to make his appearance accordingly.
The person who was ushered into the apartment,
preceded by Cæsar with a face of awful
gravity, and followed by the matron with one of
deep concern, was a tall man, beyond the middle
age, or who might rather be said to approach the
down-hill of life. In stature, he was above the size of
ordinary men, though his excessive leanness might
contribute in deceiving as to his height; his countenance
was sharp and unbending, and every muscle
seemed set in the most rigid compression. No
joy or relaxation appeared ever to have dwelt on
features that frowned habitually, as if in detestation
of the vices of mankind. The brows were
beetling, dark, and forbidding, giving the promise of
eyes of no less repelling expression; but the organs
were concealed beneath a pair of enormous
green spectacles, through which they glared
around with a fierceness that denounced the coming
day of wrath, nor spoke any of that benevolence
which, forming the essence of our holy religion,
should be the characteristic of its ministers.
All was fanaticism, uncharitableness, and denunciation.
Long, lank, and party-coloured hair, being
a mixture of gray and black, fell down his
neck, and in some degree obscured the sides of
his face, and, parting on his forehead, fell in
either direction in straight and formal screens.
On the top of this ungraceful exhibition, was laid,
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impending forward, so as to overhang in some
measure the whole fabric, a large hat of three
equal cocks. His coat was of a rusty black, and
his breeches and stockings were of the same colour:
his shoes without lustre, and half concealed
beneath their huge plated buckles.
He stalked into the room, and giving a stiff
nod with his head, took the chair offered to him by
the black, in dignified silence. For several minutes
no one broke this ominous pause in the conversation;
Henry feeling a repugnance to his guest
that he was vainly endeavouring to conquer, and
the stranger himself drawing forth occasional sighs
and groans, that threatened a dissolution of the
unequal connexion between his sublimated soul
and its ungainly tenement. During this deathlike
preparation, Mr. Wharton, with a feeling
nearly allied to that of his son, led Sarah from the
apartment. His retreat was noticed by the divine
in a kind of scornful disdain, and he began to hum
the air of a popular psalm tune, giving it the full
richness of the twang that distinguishes the eastern
psalmody.
“Cæsar, said Miss Peyton,” hand the gentleman
some refreshment; he must need it after his ride.”
“My strength is not in the things of this life,”
said the divine, sternly, speaking in the startling
tones of a hollow sepulchral voice. “Thrice have
I this day held forth in my master's service, and
fainted not; still it is prudent to help this frail tenement
of clay, for, surely, `the labourer is worthy
of his hire.' ”
Opening a pair of enormous jaws to the exit of a
proportionable chew of tobacco, he took a good
measure of the proffered brandy, and suffered it
to glide downwards, with that facility with which
man is prone to sin.
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“I apprehend then, sir, that fatigue will disable
you from performing those duties which kindness
has induced you to attempt.”
“Woman!” exclaimed the stranger, with appalling
energy; “when was I ever known to shrink
from a duty? But `judge not lest ye be judged', and
fancy not that it is given to mortal eyes to fathom
the intentions of the deity.”
“Nay,” returned the spinster, meekly, and
slightly disgusted with his jargon; “I pretend not to
judge of either events or the intentions of my fellow
creatures, much less of those of omnipotence.”
“ 'Tis well, woman—'tis well,” cried the minister,
waving his head with supercilious disdain;
“humility becometh thy sex, and lost condition—
thy weakness driveth thee on headlong, like `unto
the besom of destruction.' ”
Surprised at this extraordinary deportment, but
yielding to that habit which urges us to speak reverently
on sacred subjects, even when perhaps we
had better continue silent, Miss Peyton replied—
“There is a power above, that can and will
sustain us all in well-doing, if we seek its support
in humility and truth.”
The stranger turned a lowering look of dissatisfaction
at the speaker, and then composing
himself into an air of self-abasement, continued
in the same repelling tones as before—
“It is not every one that cryeth out for mercy
that will be heard. The ways of providence are
not to be judged by men—`Many are called, but
few chosen.' It is easier to talk of humility, than
to feel it. Are you so humbled, vile worm, as to
wish to glorify God by your own damnation? If
not, away with you for a publican and a pharisee.”
Such gross fanaticism was uncommon in America,
and Miss Peyton began to imbibe the impression
that their guest was deranged; but
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remembering that he had been sent by a well known divine,
and one of reputation, she discarded the idea, and
with much forbearance, observed—
“I may deceive myself, in believing that mercy
is proffered to all, but it is so soothing a doctrine
that I would not willingly be undeceived.”
“Mercy is only for the elect,” cried the stranger,
with an unaccountable energy; “and you
are in the `valley of the shadow of death.' Are
you not a follower of them idle ceremonies, which
belong to the vain church, that our tyrants would
gladly establish here, along with their stamp-acts
and tea-laws? Answer me that, woman; and remember,
that heaven hears your answer: Are you
not of that idolatrous communion?”
“I worship at the altars of my fathers,” said
the spinster, motioning to Henry for silence;
“but bow to no other idol than my own infirmities.”
“Yes, yes—I know ye—self-righteous and papal,
as ye are—followers of forms and listeners
to bookish preaching—think you, woman, that
holy Paul had notes in his hand to propound the
word to the believers.”
“My presence disturbs you,” said Miss Peyton,
rising; “I will leave you with my nephew, and
offer those prayers in private that I did wish to
mingle with his.”
So saying, she withdrew, followed by the landlady;
who was not a little shocked and somewhat
surprised by the intemperate zeal of her new acquaintance.
For although the good woman believed
that Miss Peyton and her whole church were on
the high road to destruction, she was by no means
accustomed to hear such offensive and open avowals
of their fate.
Henry had with difficulty repressed the indignation
excited by this unprovoked attack on his
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meek and unresisting aunt; but as the door closed
on her retiring figure he gave way to his feelings,
and exclaimed with heat—
“I must confess, sir, that in receiving a minister
of God, I thought I was admitting a Christian;
and one who, by feeling his own weaknesses,
knew how to pity the frailties of others.
You have wounded the meek spirit of that excellent
woman, and I acknowledge but little inclination
to mingle in prayer with so intolerant a
spirit.”
The minister stood erect, with grave composure,
following with his eyes in a kind of scornful
pity, the retiring spinster, and suffered the expostulation
of the youth to be given as if unworthy
of his notice—A third voice, however, spoke—
“Such a denunciation would have driven many
women into fits; but it has answered the purpose
well enough as it is.”
“Who's that?” cried the prisoner, in amazement,
gazing around the room in quest of the
speaker—
“It is me, Captain Wharton,” said Harvey Birch,
removing the spectacles, and exhibiting his piercing
eyes shining under a pair of false eye-brows.
“Good Heavens!—Harvey!”
“Silence!” said the pedlar solemnly; “ 'tis a
name not to be mentioned, and least of all, here,
within the heart of the American army.” Birch
paused, and gazed around him for a moment, with
an emotion exceeding the base passion of fear—
and then continued in a gloomy tone, “There are
a thousand halters in that very name, and little
hope would there be left me of another escape,
should I be again taken. This is a fearful venture
that I now am making; but I could not sleep in
quiet, and know that an innocent man was about
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to die the death of a dog, when I might save him.”
“No,” said Henry, with a glow of generous
feeling on his cheek; “if the risk to yourself be
so heavy, retire as you came, and leave me to my
fate. Dunwoodie is making, even now, powerful
exertions in my behalf, and if he meets with Mr.
Harper in the course of the night, my liberation
is certain.”
“Harper!” echoed the pedlar, remaining with
his hands raised, in the act of replacing the spectacles;
“what do you know of Harper? and why
do you think he will do you service?”
“I have his promise;—you remember our recent
meeting in my father's dwelling, and he then
gave an unasked promise to assist me.”
“Yes—but do you know him—that is—why do
you think he has the power? or what reason have
you for believing he will remember his word?”
“If there ever was the stamp of truth, or simple,
honest, benevolence, in the countenance of
man, it shone in his,” said Henry; “besides, Dunwoodie
has powerful friends in the rebel army,
and it would be better that I take the chance
where I am, than thus to expose you to certain
death, if detected.”
“Captain Wharton,” said Birch, looking guardedly
around, with habitual caution, and speaking
with impressive seriousness of manner, “if I fail
you, all fail you. No Harper or Dunwoodie can
save your life; unless you get out with me, and
that within the hour, you die to-morrow on the
gallows of a murderer—yes, such are their laws;
the man who fights, and kills, and plunders, is honoured;
but, he who serves his country as a spy,
no matter how faithfully, no matter how honestly,
lives to be reviled, or dies like the vilest criminal.”
“You forget, Mr. Birch,” said the youth, a little
indignantly, “that I am not a treacherous,
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lurking spy, who deceives to betray; but am innocent
of the charge imputed to me.”
The blood rushed over the pale, meager features
of the pedlar, until his face was one glow of
fire; but it passed away as quickly, and he replied—
“I have told you. Cæsar met me, as he was
going on his errand this morning, and with him I
have laid the plan, which, if executed as I wish,
will save you—otherwise, you are lost; and I again
tell you, that no other power on earth, not even
Washington, can save you.”
“I submit,” said the prisoner, yielding to his
earnest manner, and goaded by the fears that were
thus awakened anew.
The pedlar beckoned him to be silent, and
walking to the door, opened it, with the stiff,
formal air, with which he had entered the apartment.
“Friend, let no one enter,” he said to the sentinel,
“we are about to go to prayer, and would
wish to be alone.”
“I don't know that any will wish to interrupt
you,” returned the soldier, with a waggish leer of
his eye; “but, should they be so disposed, I have
no power to stop them, if they be of the prisoner's
friends; I have my orders, and must mind
them, whether the Englishman goes to heaven or
not.”
“Audacious sinner!” said the pretended priest,
“have you not the fear of God before your eyes?
I tell you, as you will dread punishment at the last
day, to let none of the idolatrous communion enter
to mingle in the prayers of the righteous.”
“Whew—ew—ew—what a noble commander
you'd make for sergeant Hollister; you'd preach
him dumb in a roll-call. Hark'ee, I'll just thank
you not to make such a noise when you hold forth,
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as to drown our bugles, or you may get a poor fellow
a short horn at his grog, for not turning out to
the evening parade: if you want to be alone, have
you no knife to stick over the door-latch, that you
must have a troop of horse to guard your meeting-house?”
The pedlar took the hint, and closed the door
immediately, using the precaution suggested by the
angry dragoon.
“You overact your part,” said young Wharton,
in constant apprehension of a discovery; “your
zeal is too intemperate.”
“For a foot soldier and them eastern militia, it
might be,” said Harvey, turning a bag upside down
that Cæsar now handed him; “but these dragoons
are fellows that you must brag down. A faint
heart, Captain Wharton, would do but little here;
but come, here is a black shroud for your good-looking
countenance,” taking at the same time, a
parchment mask and fitting it to the face of Henry.
“The master and the man must change places for
a season.”
“I don't tink he look a bit like me,” said Cæsar,
with disgust, as he surveyed his young master with
his new complexion.
“Stop a minute, Cæsar,” said the pedlar, with
the lurking drollery that at times formed part of
his manner, “ 'till we get on the wool.”
“He worse than ebber now,” cried the discontented
African. “A tink coloured man like a
sheep. I nebber see sich a lip, Harvey; he most
as big as a sausage.”
Great pains had been taken in forming the different
articles used in the disguise of Captain
Wharton, and when arranged under the skilful superintendance
of the pedlar, they formed together
a transformation that would easily escape detection
from any but an extraordinary observer.
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The mask was stuffed, and shaped in such a
manner as to preserve the peculiarities, as well as
the colour, of the African visage, and the wig
was so artfully formed of black and white wool, as
to imitate the pepper-and-salt colour of Cæsar's
own head, and to extract plaudits from the black
himself, who thought it an excellent counterfeit
in every thing but quality.
“There is but one man in the American army
who could detect you, Captain Wharton,” said the
pedlar, surveying his work with satisfaction, “and
he is just now out of our way.”
“And who is he?”
“The man who made you prisoner. He would
see your white skin through a horse-hide; but
strip both of you; your clothes must be changed
from head to foot.”
Cæsar, who had received minute instructions
from the pedlar in their morning interview, immediately
commenced throwing aside his coarse
garments, which the youth took up and prepared
to invest himself with, unable however to repress a
few signs of loathing.
In the manner of the pedlar, there was an odd
mixture of care and humour; the former was the
result of a perfect knowledge of their danger, and
the means necessary to be used in avoiding it; and
the latter proceeded from the unavoidably ludicrous
circumstances before him, acting on an indifference
which sprung from habit, and long familiarity with
such scenes as the present.
“Here Captain,” he said, taking up some loose
wool, and beginning to stuff the stockings of Cæsar,
which were already on the leg of the prisoner;
“some judgment is necessary in shaping this limb.
You will have to display it on horseback and them
southern dragoons are so used to the brittle-shins,
that should they notice your well turned calf, they'd
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know at once that it never belonged to the carcase
of a black.”
“Golly!” said Cæsar, with a chuckle that exhibited
a mouth open from ear to ear, “massy Harry
breeches fit like ebbery ting.”
“Every thing but your leg,” said the pedlar,
coolly pursuing the toilet of Henry. “Slip on the
coat, Captain, over all. Upon my word you'd pass
well at a pinkster frolic; and here, Cæsar, place
this powdered wig over your curls, and be careful
and look out of the window whenever the door
is open, and on no account speak, or you will betray
all.
“I s'pose Harvey tink a color'd man an't got a
tongue like oder folk,” grumbled the black, as he
took the station assigned to him.
Every thing now was arranged for action, and
the pedlar very deliberately went over the whole
of his injunctions to the two actors in the scene.—
The Captain he conjured to dispense with his
erect military carriage, and for a season to adopt
the humbler paces of his father's negro, and Cæsar
he enjoined to silence and disguise, so long as
he could possibly maintain them. Thus prepared he
opened the door, and called aloud to the sentinel,
who had retired to the farthest end of the passage,
in order to avoid receiving any of that spiritual
comfort, which he felt was the sole property of
another.
“Let the woman of the house be called,” said
Harvey, in the solemn key of his assumed character;
“and let her come alone. The prisoner is
in a happy train of meditation, and must not be
led from his devotions.”
Cæsar sunk his face between his hands, and
when the soldier looked into the apartment, he
thought he saw his charge in deep abstraction.
Casting a glance of huge contempt at the divine,
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he cried aloud for the good woman of the house.
She hastened at the call with earnest zeal, entertaining
a secret hope that she was to be admitted
to the gossip of a death-bed repentance.
“Sister,” said the minister in the authoritative
tones of a master, “have you in the house `The
Christian criminal's last moments, or thoughts on
eternity for those who die a violent death?”'
“I never heard of the book!” said the matron
in astonishment.
“ 'Tis not unlikely; there are many books you
have never heard of—it is impossible for this poor
penitent to pass in peace, without the consolations
of that volume. One hours reading in it, is worth
an age of man's preaching.”
“Bless me, what a treasure to possess!—when
was it put out?”
“It was first put out at Geneva in the Greek
language, and then translated at Boston. It is a
book, woman, that should be in the hands of
every Christian, especially such as die upon the
gallows.—Have a horse prepared instantly for this
black, who shall accompany me to my Brother—,
and I will send down the volume yet in
season.—Brother compose thy mind; you are
now in the narrow path to glory.”
Cæsar wriggled a little in his chair, but had sufficient
recollection to conceal his face with hands,
that were in their turn concealed by gloves. The
landlady departed to comply with this very reasonable
request, and the group of conspirators
were again left to themselves.
“This is well,” said the pedlar, “but the difficult
task is to deceive the officer who commands
the guard—he is lieutenant to Lawton, and has
learned some of the captain's own cunning in
these things—remember, Captain Wharton,”
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continued he, with an air of pride, “that now is the
moment when every thing depends on our coolness.”
“My fate can be made but little worse than it
is at present, my worthy fellow,” said Henry, “but
for your sake I will do all that in me lies.”
“And wherein can I be more forlorn and persecuted
than I now am?” asked the pedlar, with
that wild incoherency which often crossed his manner.
“But I have promised one to save you, and
to him I never yet have broken my word.”
“And who is he?” said Henry with awakened
interest.
“No one,” returned the pedlar.
The man now returned and announced that
both their horses were at the door. Harvey gave
the captain a glance of his eye, and led the way
down the stairs, first desiring the woman to leave
the prisoner to himself, in order to his digesting
the wholesome food that he had so lately received
at his hands.
The rumour of the odd character of the priest,
had spread from the sentinel at the door, to his
comrades; so, that when Harvey and Wharton
reached the open space before the building, they
found a dozen idle dragoons loitering about, with
the waggish intention of quizzing the fanatic, and
employed in affected admiration of the steeds.
“A fine horse, you have,” said the leader in
this plan of mischief; “but a little low in flesh; I
suppose from hard labour in your calling.”
“My calling may be laborious to both myself
and this faithful beast, but then a day of settling
is at hand, that will reward me for all my out-goings
and in-comings,” said Birch, putting his foot
in the stirrup, and preparing to mount.
“So, then you work for pay, as we fight for't?
cried another of the party.
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“Even so—`is not the labourer worthy of his
hire?”'
“Come, suppose you give us a little preaching;
we have a leisure moment just now, and there's
no telling how much good you might do a set of
reprobates like us, in a few words; here, mount
this horse-block, and take your text from where
you please.”
The men now gathered around the pedlar in eager
delight, and glancing his eye expressively towards
the Captain, who had been suffered to
mount in peace, he replied—
“Doubtless, for such is my duty. But Cæsar,
you can ride up the road, and give the note—the
unhappy prisoner will be wanting the book, for
his hours are numbered.”
“Aye—aye, go along Cæsar, and get the book,”
shouted have a dozen voices, all crowding eagerly
around the ideal priest, in anticipation of a
frolic.
The pedlar inwardly dreaded, that, in their
unceremonious handling of himself and garments,
his hat and wig might be displaced, when
detection would be certain; he was, therefore,
fain to comply with their request. Ascending the
horse-block, after hemming once or twice, and
casting several glances at the Captain, who continued
immoveable, he commenced as follows:
“I shall call your attention, my brethren, to that
portion of scripture which you will find in the 2d
book of Samuel, and which is written in the
following words: `And the king lamented over Abner,
and said, died Abner as a fool dieth—thy
hands were not bound, nor thy feet put into fetters;
as a man falleth before wicked men, so falleth
thou, and all the people wept again over him.'
Cæsar, ride forward, I say, and obtain the book as
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directed; thy master is groaning in spirit even now
for the want of it.”
“An excellent text,” cried the dragoons. “Go
on—go on—let the snow-ball stay; he wants to
be edified as well as another.”
“What are you at there, you scoundrels,” cried
Lieutenant Mason, as he came in sight from a
walk he had taken to sneer at the evening parade
of the regiment of militia; “away with every man
of you to your quarters, and let me find that each
horse is cleaned and littered when I come round.”
The sound of the officer's voice operated like a
charm, and no priest could desire a more silent congregation,
although he might possibly have wished
for one that was more numerous. Mason had not
done speaking, when it was reduced to the image
of Cæsar only. The pedlar took that opportunity
to mount, but he had to preserve the gravity of
his movements, for the remark of the troopers upon
the condition of their beasts, was but too just, and
a dozen of dragoon horses stood saddled and bridled
at hand, ready to receive their riders at a
moment's warning.
“Well, have you bitted the poor devil within,”
said Mason, “that he can take his last ride under
the curb of divinity, old gentleman.”
“There is evil in thy conversation, profane
man,” cried the priest, raising his hands, and casting
his eyes upwards in holy horror; “so I will
depart from thee unhurt, even as Daniel was liberated
from the lion's den.”
“Off with you, for a hypocritical, psalm singing,
canting rogue in disguise,” said Mason scornfully;
“by the life of Washington! it worries an
honest follow, to see such voracious beasts of
prey ravaging a country for which he shed his
blood. If I had you on a Virginia plantation for
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a quarter of an hour, I'd teach you to worm the
tobacco with the turkeys.”
“I leave you, and shake the dust off my shoes,
that no remnant of this wicked hole may tarnish
the vestments of the godly.”
“Start, or I will shake the dust from your jacket,
you designing knave. A fellow to be preaching
to my men! There's Hollister put the devil
in them by his exhorting—the rascals were getting
too conscientious to strike a blow that would
rase the skin. But hold, whither do you travel,
master blackey, in such godly company?”
“He goes,” said the minister, hastily speaking
for his companion, “to return with a book of
much condolence and virtue to the sinful youth
above, whose soul will speedily become white,
even as his outwards are black and unseemly.
Would you deprive a dying man of the consolation
of religion?”
“No—no—poor fellow, his fate is bad enough,—
a famous good breakfast that prim body of an
aunt of his gave us. But harkee, Mr. Revelations,
if the youth must die secundum artem, let
it be by a gentleman's directions; and my advice
is, that you never trust that skeleton of yours
among us again, or I will take the skin off and
leave you naked.”
“Out upon thee for a reviler and scoffer of
goodness!” said Birch, moving slowly, and with
a due observance of clerical dignity, down the
road, followed by the imaginary Cæsar; “but I
leave thee, and that behind me that will prove
thy condemnation, and take from thee a hearty
and joyful deliverance.”
“Damn him,” muttered the trooper, pursing
his lip with a scornful smile, “the fellow rides
like a stake, and his legs stick out like the cocks
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of his hat. I wish I had him below these hills
where the law is not over particular, I'd”—
“Corporal of the guard!—corporal of the
guard!”—shouted the sentinel in the passage to
the chambers—“corporal of the guard!—corporal
of the guard!”
The subaltern flew up the narrow stair-way
that led to the room of the prisoner, and demanded
of the man the meaning of his outcry.
The soldier was standing at the open door of
the apartment, looking in with a suspicious eye,
upon the supposed British officer. On observing
his lieutenant he fell back with habitual respect,
and replied with an air of puzzled thought—
“I dont know, sir; but just now the prisoner
looked queer. Ever since the preacher has left
him he don't look as he used to do—but”—gazing
intently over the shoulder of his officer, “it must
be him, too. There is the same powdered head,
and the darn in the coat, where he was hit the
day we had the last brush with the enemy.”
“And then all this noise is occasioned, by your
doubting whether that poor gentleman is your
prisoner or not, is it sirrah? Who the devil do
you think it can be else?”
“I don't know who else it can be,” returned
the fellow sullenly; “but he's grown thicker and
shorter, if it is him; and see for yourself, sir, he
shakes all over like a man in an ague.”
This was but too true. Cæsar was an alarmed
auditor of this short conversation, and from congratulating
himself upon the dexterous escape of
his young master, his thoughts were very naturally
beginning to dwell upon the probable consequences
to his own person. The pause that
succeeded to the last remark of the sentinel, in
no degree contributed to the restoration of his
faculties. Lieutenant Mason was busied in
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examining with his own eyes the suspected person
of the black, and Cæsar was aware of the fact,
by stealing a look through a passage under one of
his arms, that he had left for the purpose of reconnoitring.
Captain Lawton would have discovered
the fraud immediately, but Mason was by
no means so quick-sighted as his commander. He
therefore turned rather contemptuously to the
soldier, and speaking in an under tone, observed—
“That anabaptist, methodistical, quaker, psalm-singing
rascal, has frightened the boy, with his
farrago about flames and brimstone. I'll step in
and cheer him with a little rational conversation.”
“I have heard of fear making a man white,”
said the soldier drawing back, and staring as if
his eyes would start from their sockets; “but it
has changed the royal captain to a black.”
The truth was, that Cæsar, unable to hear what
Mason uttered in a low voice, and having every
fear aroused in him by what had already passed,
incautiously removed the wig a little from one of
his ears in order to hear the better, without in
the least remembering that its colour might prove
fatal to his disguise. The sentinel had kept his
eyes fastened on his prisoner and noticed the action.
The attention of Mason was instantly
drawn to the same object, and forgetting all delicacy
for a brother officer in distress, or, in short,
forgetting every thing but the censure that might
alight on his corps, the Lieutenant sprang forward
and seized the terrified African by the throat.
For no sooner had Cæsar heard his colour named,
than he knew his discovery was certain; and at
the first sound of Mason's heavy boot on the floor,
he arose from his seat and retreated precipitately
to a corner of the room.
“Who are you?” cried Mason, dashing the head
of the old man against the angle of the wall at
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each interrogatory, “who the devil are you, and
where is the Englishman? Speak! you thunder-cloud.
Answer me, you jack-daw, or I'll hang
you on the gallows of the spy.
But Cæsar continued firm. Neither the threats
nor the blows could extract any reply, until the
Lieutenant, by a very natural transition in the attack,
sent his heavy boot forward in a direction
that brought it in exact contact with the most
sensitive part of the negro—his shin. The most
obdurate heart could not have exacted further
patience, and Cæsar instantly gave in. The first
words he spoke were —
“Golly! Massa! You tink I got no feelin?”
“By Heavens!” shouted the Lieutenant; “it
is the negro himself. Scoundrel! where is your
master, and who was the priest?” While speaking
he made a movement as if about to renew the attack;
but Cæsar cried aloud for mercy, promising
to tell all that he knew.
“Who was the priest?” repeated the dragoon,
drawing back his formidable leg, and holding it in
threatening suspense.
“Harvey, Harvey!” cried Cæsar, dancing from
one leg to the other, as he thought each member
in its turn assailed.
“Harvey who? you black villain,” cried the impatient
Lieutenant, as he executed a full measure
of vengeance by letting his leg fly.
“Birch!” shrieked Cæsar, falling on his knees,
the tears rolling in large drops over his shining
face.
“Harvey Birch!” echoed the trooper, hurling
the black from him and rushing from the room;
“To arms! to arms! Fifty guineas for the life of
the Pedlar spy—give no quarters to either. Mount,
mount! to arms! to horse!”
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During the uproar occasioned by the assembling
of the dragoons, who all rushed tumultuously to
their horses, Cæsar rose from the floor, where he
had been thrown by Mason, and began to examine
into his injuries.—Happily for himself, he had
alighted on his head, and sustained no material
damage.
-- 198 --
Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1821], The spy, volume 2 (Wiley & Halsted, New York) [word count] [eaf052v2].
