CHAPTER XII. THE CONSPIRACY.
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After the clattering hoofs of the departing cavalcade
had died away, the silence of the pavilion
was only disturbed by the measured footfall of the
sentinel, a distant challenge of a patrol, or the more
distant and confused sounds of the enemy at work
strengthening their defences against the morrow's
anticipated assault. Sir Henry Clinton and the
Earl of Percy reseated themselves by the table.
The former commenced penning despatches: the
latter sat opposite to him, sometimes absently sipping
from a glass of wine before him, or, placing it
down and still holding it in his grasp, gazing fixedly
and admiringly upon the noble features of the British
general as his face was bent to his task, the lamp
shining upon them, and relieving, by strong lights
and shadows, every lineament of his marked and
intellectual countenance. At length, when he had
completed, folded, and had risen to melt the wax
by the light above his head preparatory to sealing
his letters, Percy said, with a meaning smile,
“Sir Henry, I have pleasant news.”
“Ha! indeed, my lord?” said Clinton, placing
the wax upon the letter and deliberately impressing
the seal.
“No less than a surety of the success of our
former plan, for the failure of which Carnet was
strung up.”
“I'll have nothing to do with it, my lord. I like
not any concernment with such underhand plotting,
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especially now that we have come to an open and
fair warfare. If you choose to persevere in your
scheme, I have no objection, although I wash my
hands officially or personally of the whole affair.
To say truth, I don't think it, as my Lord Howe
would say, all fair and above board.”
“And yet you will profit by the result. But I
have no delicate compunctions of this sort; all is
fair in war. To be sure, it would be more chivalrous
to take our enemy in the field in open fight
than by stratagem.”
“Such a plan as you propose is deemed right
and proper by all nations; but, in my opinion, it
is unworthy of Englishmen. It is on a par with
the base principle that influences some barbarous
nations to cut off their prisoners' right hands to prevent
them from bearing arms against them.”
“Well, general,” replied the Earl of Percy, smiling,
“I am not quite so scrupulous as you profess
to be. I hope, if I present you to-morrow the right
hand of this rebellion—the head and front of this
offence—you will receive the distinguished guest
into your tent and give him a good welcome,” he
added, rising and enveloping himself in his cloak.
“If the presence of this guest would terminate
the war, he should be cheerfully welcomed. What
guarantee have you of success?” inquired Clinton,
with some interest.
“Your curiosity is awakened, but I will be charitable
to your prejudices, Clinton, and not implicate
your conscience by making you a confidant in so
dangerous a matter. Good-evening, sir.”
“Good-night, my lord,” said Clinton, resuming
his writing with undisturbed equanimity. Lord
Percy, after leaving the tent, passed the guards
unchallenged. Having gained the outer circle of
sentinels, he stopped near a tree within bowshot
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of Clinton's quarters, listened a moment, and looked
anxiously around as if expecting some one; but,
after making the circuit of the tree twice without
meeting any object, he stopped and gazed thoughtfully
upon the long lines of tents stretching duskily
away on either side till lost in the distance. The
camp had settled into a deep and noiseless repose.
“How profound this rest!” he mused. “Ten
thousand men are sleeping heavily around me!
The whitened ground is heaving with mailed sleepers;
men who a few hours since were shouting
the battle-cry, and bathing their arms in the blood
of their fellow-creatures! They peacefully sleep,
oblivious of the past, unanxious for the future.
Thousands, who now sleep in their blood along the
hillside and skirts of yonder forest, last night laid
down and slept as now sleep these, who to-morrow
night, perchance, will sleep, like them, in a bed of
gore.”
“Mi lor!” said a voice at his side.
“Ha, Pascalet! are you there? I have waited
for you. Where is Major Ney?”
“Le Mazhore Ney, mi lor, 'est occupé in de
dressin ov deux slash in de skin. Mais c'est nothin
much!”
“Wounded, Pascalet?”
“Eh, un leetle. Une affaire no grande. He
hav' un heart ver' brave; tres fort, wit de glorie he
make contre de ennemee.”
“I must, then, visit him in his tent. Lead on.”
“Oui, mi lor,” replied the man, turning to the
right, and gliding rather than walking to the rear
of the pavilion, and through a lane formed by two
rows of tents. Every few rods they were intercepted
by two sentinels, who crossed their arms
before them, demanding not only the password,
but also to see the faces of the strangers. After
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walking a few minutes rapidly and silently in a
northern direction, they crossed a small brook rippling
over its pebbly bed on its way to discharge
its tributary waters into Gowan's Cove, and, after
answering the challenges of the sentinels stationed
on either bank, they entered an open field bordered
on the east by tall trees, and surrounded on every
side except on the south by marshes: here it was
connected by a low ridge with the elevated ground
they had just left behind, and on which was encamped
the centre of the British army.
“Ici, mi lor, be de first detachment of de—de—
what you call no de lef?—ah, de wing right,” said
the guide, as they skirted a spur of the main encampment.
“Ah, dere de maison,” added he, after
they had advanced a few paces farther, pointing to
a low, dusky farmhouse nearly hidden in the dark
shadows of the wood to the east, and surrounded
by tents, some of which were pitched close to its
threshold.
They made their way through these tents, which
were placed with less regularity than those about
the headquarters, as if they had been planted hastily
and late; and some soldiers they saw still engaged
fastening the pins of one or two, as, challenged
at every turn, they thridded the intricacies.
Passing a sentinel at the door of the farmhouse,
Pascalet spoke in a low tone to a soldier standing
in the hall, who, without replying, walked to its
extremity and knocked at a side door.
“Pascalet, wait my orders,” said Percy, as he
obeyed the summons to enter.
“Oui, mi lor,” he replied, with a gleaming smile,
which seemed to be confined wholly to his black,
bloodthirsty eye, mechanically, at the same time,
placing his hand into his breast as if grasping a
concealed weapon.
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The room into which Percy was admitted was
a small bedchamber in a wing of a house in which
several British officers had taken up quarters for
the night. A single bed, with a military cloak
thrown over it for a coverlid; a semicircular table
standing beneath a small looking-glass, with a white
dimity cloth upon it; two flag-bottom chairs, with
high oaken backs; a picture of a curly-headed little
girl, in a pink frock, kneeling on the grass, holding
a vessel, out of which a pet lamb was quietly drinking,
an old gnarled oak forming the back-ground;
a framed sampler, with the alphabet displayed in
every hue of the rainbow, in every variety of size
and form; an oilcloth-covered combcase on one side
of the little glass, symmetrically in keeping with a
pin and needle cushion on the other; and, finally,
two strips of carpeting, economically made of
patches and shreds of variously-coloured broadcloth,
one lying by the bedside, the other before
the tall, half-moon toilet table, constituted, in part,
the ornaments and furniture of the little chamber.
On the mantelpiece was a New Testament, much
schoolworn, a volume of Isaac Watts's Psalms and
Hymns, and a well-thumbed copy of the Book of
Martyrs. A volume of the “Rise and Progress of
Religion in the Soul” innocently flanked a little
glass case of French gaud, containing a tawdry
waxen image of the Virgin Mary, holding in her
arms an infant arrayed in pink and roses; a prized
ornament of the little bedroom, doubtless, not a deity
for the worship of its former occupant. In addition
to the furniture just mentioned, there was a little
workstand in one corner, white muslin curtains to
the humble windows, and a flower-vase containing
a daisy upon the shining red hearth before a flaunting
paper fireboard; all of which showed that it
was the rustic boudoir of some humble maiden,
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whom the fortune of war had rudely dispossessed,
for a time, of her quiet home. The floor was as
white as the driven snow; the walls were whitewashed,
and even the rafters which stretched across
the low ceiling were free from the webs of the busy
spider, whose labours are but little respected by
the broom of the diligent, brushing, and bustling
housewife.
“Good-evening, my lord,” said Major Ney, rising
from the bed on which he had been lying in his uniform
as Lord Percy entered; “you come to narrow
quarters.”
“Neat and homely,” said his lordship, whose
quick eye had taken in at a glance all the details
we have taken so much space to relate. “You
have been a sad and unwelcome intruder here, sir.
Where's the pretty coquette who each morning reflected
her rosy and sunbrowned cheeks in this mirror?
No outrage has been committed, I trust, by the
soldiers? This war is bitter enough, of necessity.”
“None, my lord. The tenant is a loyalist. His
family are in quiet possession of the opposite wing.”
“Didst not find a pretty lass curling her locks in
paper at that half-moon of a table, major? Tut!
but you are a father, with a tight, pretty lass of your
own; what cares an old widower for bright een and
sunny hair? Hast heard of our spy of late, the fair
Isabel?” he asked, throwing himself into one of the
highback chairs, but immediately vacating it as if
he would choose a more comfortable seat, and placing
himself on the foot of the bed. “No, major,
don't rise. That villain of mine, Pascalet, tells me
you are hurt—but not badly, I hope.”
“A slight wound in the temples, received singularly
enough from a four-pounder thrown from
hand by a young gallows-bird. I shall be in my
saddle in a day or two.”
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“I am glad it is no worse. You have heard
nothing from your daughter since she was spirited
away to Kingsbridge?”
“Indirectly, that she is still there and well.”
“'Tis a pity Washington's sagacity should have
marred our plan, which seemed to tend to so fair
an issue. But we have laid a deeper train now,
and I think 'twill hardly fail us.”
“Have you heard from our friends in the city?”
inquired Major Ney.
“Not for two days, when Bellamy sent word that
all was nearly ripe, and that by six this evening
we should hear again, when and where to meet
them with our boats; but, if no tidings came from
them, to believe their messenger intercepted, and
endeavour to send one to them who could be sure
of returning safely; further, he stated that a single
boat would find no difficulty, with proper caution, in
effecting a landing near Crown Point after nightfall.”
“'Tis now eight, my lord. You should have
seen Bellamy's messenger ere this. Whom did he
send on the first message?”
“Impatient at their delay and the long interval
of news, I despatched the Frenchman's valet, Pascalet,
who has taken a fancy to attach himself to my
person. “He returned to me with their message.”
“Who is this Pascalet?”
“A very villain, if nature ever made the pattern
of one. A compound of craft, impish shrewdness,
malice, and meanness. His eye gleams with the
serpent's cunning, while he wears the look of idiocy.
He would stoop to lick my shoe if I bade
him, but would rise to strike his dagger in my
breast in atonement for the servility and in revenge
for the insult. He has no human soul, but
is only, for the moment, magnetized into humanity
by contact with his fellow-creatures.”
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“You describe a dangerous man, my lord!”
“True; but I fear him not. I do not have him
much about my person; he still serves his own
master, and only myself since the desertion of my
valet. His master, by-the-by, is his very prototype,
with the same dark spirit refined and made
more dangerous by education. They seem to have
been in each other's society so long, that, if one was
originally the greater devil, they have now become
like bodies of unequal temperature placed in juxtaposition,
equally diabolical. Like master like man,
in very truth.”
“Your lordship is aware that this is an enterprise
in which intelligence as well as craft is necessary.
The information of the valet I would not rely on, nor
trust him too far. Suppose you send the chevalier,
as he styles himself, on his parole, and promise him
his liberty if he successfully fulfils the object of his
mission. His politics, at least, are on our side.”
“Parole?”
“Is he not now on parole, my lord, within the
bounds of the camp? He is doubtless a bad man,
but he holds those lofty sentiments of military honour,
in a case where his word is pledged, which so
peculiarly characterizes the enthusiastic, incoherent
Frenchman of the day. As a soldier, he will
give and keep his word; as a man, I would not trust
him a tether's length.”
“You may be right. He seems too like one of
those men such stirring times as these create, who
are ever ready to plunge into excitement and adventure,
`tojours pres' their motto. I believe you are in
the right, Ney. It strikes me he is the very man
to serve our purpose; and then, if it fails, we can
make him the scapegoat. Our friends ashore, in
that case, will be glad to have a neck between them
and a rebel gallows. Call him, Ney. We'll have
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him into our councils, and, by a show of confidence,
bring him glibly over to our purpose.”
Pascalet was summoned, and sent to a group of
tents in the rear of the house; after a short absence
he returned, and ushered a dark foreigner into the
little room where Percy and Ney, leisurely discussing
the events of the day and the prospects of the
morrow, were awaiting his appearance.
“Messieurs,” he said, bowing low, and almost
cringingly, and speaking in tolerable English, “your
servant! Ah, mi Lord Percy! pardon me! I am
your very humble servant.”
“Chevalier,” said Percy, rising and approaching
the bowing foreigner with one of his blandest
smiles, “you do us great honour. Pray be seated.
Pascalet, you need not leave the room—thrust in
your whole body! We have occupation for some
of your leisure hours.”
“Oui, mi lor. I vill stan', mi lor, here by de door
de l'appartement,” he said, shutting the door hesitatingly,
with the timid air of one who felt himself in
the presence of a lion, and felt that he was closing
the only avenue of escape; yet he could not conceal
from Lord Percy that all this humility was
the artful guise of confidence and impudence.
Pascalet approached the presence of his superiors
ke a whipped dog who is called back to further
discipline of the lash by his master's voice; among
his equals or inferiors he was as ready with bark
and teeth as the same cur snarling among its fellows
or tyrannizing over whelps of lower degree.
He could be likened only to a snake that goes
crawling among men, ready to strike its fangs into
their heels. He was about thirty years of age, low
in stature, with broad, square shoulders, but his
figure was as straight as an arrow: he was slight
but muscular, and as active as a cat. He wore a
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coarse blue frock without a collar, small-clothes of
French cassimere, yellow hose, and paste shoebuckles.
His neck, which was encircled several
times by a soiled yellow silk kerchief, was long and
scraggy, and surmounted by a triangular-shaped
head, covered by a mass of black hair, thick and
rough like a bear's fur. His forehead was low,
narrow, and projecting, but entirely concealed by his
hair, which overhung the penthouse formed by
his bristly eyebrows. His eyes were sunken and
bloodshotten, with little restless pupils, the lustrous
gleam of which resembled a rattlesnake's; their
general expression was that of wily cunning and active
suspicion. His thin face was sallow, and half
hidden in enormous black whiskers, and disfigured
with scars. His hands were remarkably small,
yellow, and thin, with a nervous, assassin-like look,
and seemed to be almost as expressive of the restless
character of the man as his countenance. His
passions seemed to be impulsive in their nature,
but deliberative in their operations. He was quick
to decide, cool to act. During the conference, he
stood with his hand on the latch of the door; his
head sunk on his breast, but his eyes taking note of
everything that passed around him. Altogether,
he was one of those men who, at the first glance,
strike the beholder with revolting and painful emotions,
which they can neither account for nor express.
The master of this man, the soi-disant chevalier,
was a tall, exceedingly spare-built figure, upward
of six feet high, erect and military; dressed in a
long surtout of coarse French cloth, in shape somewhat
similar to the Canadian capote, but differing
from that garment in its length by reaching nearly
to the ankles of the wearer; and at the waist, instead
of being girdled by a sash, a broad military
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belt was buckled round him. In the place of
boots, so essential to the costume of an officer, he
wore high-heeled shoes adorned by a pair of costly
buckles; his belt was without a sword, and the
chains to which it had been appended were hooked
together in a loop. Under his arm he carried a
richly-laced chapeau, and, judging alone from his
dress, the observer might have set him down either
for an officer or a civilian. His face was oval, colourless,
and wholly divested of whiskers or beard;
his forehead was high and bald; his brows abrupt
and prominent; his eyes were of a light hazel colour,
and wore an unpleasing, sinister expression,
and never directly encountered those of others;
his nostril was thin and transparent, and expanding
at every emotion, as we have seen those of a
mettled courser; his under lip had a sensual fulness,
and the upper, which was finely chiselled,
wore a short, malignant curl; his look was wary
and alert; and while he observed everything and
studied others closely, he was, apparently, the most
indifferent and unobserving. His face presented a
singular combination of ferocity and mildness,
frankness and suspicion, candour and craft, pride
and humility, manly strength and feminine softness.
Over all the exterior man there shone a lustre of
courtly polish.
He entered the room bowing and smiling; took
the chair offered him by Lord Percy, and, at first,
accommodated himself to its uncomfortable shape
with habitual politeness; but, finding his attitude
left him lower than the others, he rose again, and,
with an apology that he had been sitting all the
evening, took his station behind it leaning upon its
back.
“Chevalier,” said the earl, “I have taken the
liberty of sending to invite you to join our discussions.”
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The chevalier bowed, looked inquiringly and suspiciously
from one gentleman to the other, and then
said,
“I am honoured, mi lord. The Earl of Percie
has but to speak to be obeyed.”
“When our frigate captured you in an enemy's
ship, you were, if I remember, bound to Quebec?”
“Mi lord is very correct.”
“You have frequently desired to be exchanged,
that you might accomplish your original intention;
at least, I am so informed by your valet, Pascalet.”
“It is true, mi lord. Mais, mon Dieu!” he added,
quickly, “I am no subject for exchange. I am
no enemy to King George, but a loyal Canadian
sujet.”
“You have not proved it, chevalier, and we must
treat you as a prisoner, although we sincerely regret
to do so,” said the benign earl, with affability.
“But I desire to propose to you a means of at once
obtaining your freedom. There is a plan ripe for
the abduction of a rebel officer of high rank. The
conspirators are now assembled in a certain house
in New-York. I wish to communicate with them.
We have seen fit to extend your parole, which, like
a Frenchman and a man of honour, you have so long
kept sacred, on condition that, with Pascalet as your
guide, you will see these gentlemen, and, as soon as
possible, return and report their proceedings; this
faithfully done, chevalier, your liberty is in your
own hands. You hear the terms?” continued Lord
Percy, after a moment's pause.
The chevalier eyed the two gentlemen, and even
glanced to mark the expression of Pascalet's face,
like one who always looks in men's countenances
for a construction that shall contradict or convey
an opposite meaning to their words, as if he regarded
these as riddles which crafty penetration
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would unravel. Discovering nothing to prevent
his taking their words in their obvious meaning, he
said with complacency, but carefully guarding his
countenance,
“Mi lord, I accept the mission with pleasure.”
“You have, then, your parole, chevalier! Pascalet
will be your guide, for he has been to the city
before. Take this seal as your authority, and bring
me, by letters or verbally, the condition of affairs.
Pascalet's wit will find a way of crossing the water.
He hung to the rudder of one of the enemy's barges,
Ney, two nights since, and was safely towed across.
A wet jacket is not, however, a part of the conditions,
chevalier.”
Scrutinizing their features once more, as if he
would find something in their faces that had not
escaped their lips, he bowed courteously, received
a sword handed him by Major Ney, and, after some
further instructions from Lord Percy, left the room,
followed by Pascalet.
“There go a precious pair of villains, my lord.”
“And they, or the greater one of them, is like to
stay; farewell to that sword, Ney.”
“'Twere well gone if 'twould keep him away.”
“I wonder at Lord Howe's whim at keeping him
so long a prisoner. But we must hear from our
friends, and English blood has been shed too freely
to-day to risk more of it in this enterprise. But,
my lord, you go not forth to-night?”
“I have matters to talk over with Clinton, and
must leave.”
“Do we force the lines in the morning?”
`No; but we shall break ground in form tomorrow
night.”
“Thank Heaven, by that time I shall be fit for
the saddle. So, then, my lord, if you will not share
my quarters, good-night.”
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“Good-night, and may your dreams be of the
fair rustic—pshaw! I forget thou art a pater-familias.
When this chevalier returns, send word to
my tent.”
Thus speaking, Lord Percy wrapped his cloak
around him, and, with his drawn sword concealed
beneath it, left the farmhouse, and, without interruption,
gained the quarters of Sir Henry Clinton.
The chevalier and his companion pursued their
way silently but rapidly across the field, the latter
taking the lead as guide, and, after a walk of half
a mile, they entered a wood bordering on a brook
that emptied into Whaaleboght Bay. Descending
the steep bank by clinging to bushes, they turned
short to the left, following the course of the stream
before mentioned, now scrambling along it by a
rough track strewn with stones, now crossing and
then recrossing it when their path was shut in by
approaching banks, and now leaping from rock to
rock. They at length arrived at the outlet of the
creck, and beheld the little bay of Whaaleboght
stretching before them; the campfires of the Americans
were on their left; and, far distant, the lights
of the city flung their spiral, wavy lines over the
water. Even to this retired spot the fight had penetrated;
and several bodies of Americans, who had
fled to the shore to take boats, lay dead on the beach
where they had struggled in vain for their lives.
Not finding any boat, the two proceeded higher
up the beach until they came to a point of land
where the East River was narrower than below,
and from which, favoured by the tide, they could
cross obliquely to the city. After looking about
for some time, Pascalet found a small wherry concealed
beneath a clump of willows in a narrow inlet
worn in the sand by a torrent.
“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, as, in taking hold of
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the wherry to drag it from its concealment, he heard
a heavy groan; “c'est le diable!” but the next instant,
as if comprehending the cause of the noise,
he thrust one hand through the foliage and grasped
a man by the breast; with the other he drew his
stiletto, brandished it in the air, and, with “sacr-r-r-e!”
rolling from his tongue, was about to
bury it in his body, when the chevalier caught his
arm.
“Hold, Pascalet! You've killed rebels enough
to-day. If he is the owner of the boat, we'll make
him row us across. There is time enough to kill
him when we've done with him.”
“For the sake of the blessed Mary!” cried the
man, in provincial French, at the same time struggling
to free himself from the muscular grasp upon
his chest, “spare my life; I am a true man—oh
misericorde! Mercy, mercy!”
“By the holy church! we've a bon comrade
here,” said Pascalet, in French, dropping his arm
and releasing his hold, “and a howling one too.
Stir out of that, and let us see who thou art that
hast a life worth so much yelling for! Out!
Crawl, or I will make thee tune thy pipes to some
purpose!”
“Patient, good friend,” said the man, in Canadian
French; “put up that dangerous whinger, an it
please thee. It might do mischief of itself. No,
no! force me not! I will come out. I am coming!
Thank the saints! ye are friends and true
men. Bless me, how sweet er words sound; 'tis
long since I've heard such sweet words! Prithee,
friend and countryman, be not over hasty! Seest
thou not I'm coming?”
At length, after very manifest reluctance, he
placed his feet on the ground, trembling and
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talking all the while in tones dolefully pitched to disarm
the dangers with which he felt himself surrounded.
He had no sooner shown himself, than,
dropping on his knees, he began to plead piteously
for his life.
“Hist, thou liver-loon!” said Pascalet; “if'twere
not for thy Canadian tongue, I would whisk off
thy head as I would a garlic top! Whist! or thy
speech shall not longer keep thy head. Who art
thou, villain? Tell me thy name and country, and
why thou art here?”
“A poor peasant of Chaudiere, whom the devil
has driven out to the wars, who never did harm to
living soul, so save me, mercy! 'Twas to save
the lives of many, who would else have been slain
by me had I continued in battle, that I hid my valour
aneath this boat! No, I am no ill-hearted man,
friend! I would not harm a hair o' thy head if I
were to get the strampado for not doing it. By my
beard would I not!”
“Thou art the most valiant coward and most
cowardly braggart these ears ever listened to.
Sacre! I know not if thou art the more knave or
fool. But wert never christened? Thy name,
villain?”
“Jacques Cloots, courageous sir.”
“Cloots? Jacques Cloots? and from Chaudiere,
sayst thou?”
“Even so, your valiancy; and now a rebel—that
is, if thou beest un; if not, I am one o' the enemy,
as it suits your valour's humour.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Pascalet; “art thou that
Jacques Cloots whom I have ducked for pastime
in the Chaudiere; tied by the thumb to a tree in
June, sticking thy nose with honey; made thee
swallow tadpoles and swear them oysters; fed thee
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with pebbles for sugarplums, and pounded thee at
my pleasure? By the head of St. Peter, Sir Chevalier!
I have caught a Tartar.”
During this address, Jacques, who, after his discomfiture,
had chanced to find and occupy the hiding-place
from which he was so ceremoniously
dragged forth, groaned in agony. At each enumeration
of Pascalet's exploits and his own martyrdoms
he would mutter something between an exorcism
and a prayerful ejaculation; when he ended, he
clasped his hands and emitted a deep groan, like
one who had resigned himself to some dreadful
destiny that was in waiting for him.
“Speak, clown! art thou not that veritable
Jacques Cloots who, with the soul of a mouse,
would make thy fellows believe thou wert a lion;
while thou couldst not bear to see me, in mere
sport, tear a live frog's hind-legs off?”
“I—I am. Art thou Pascalet—Pascalet le Diable?”
“Pascalet le Diable? Dost wish to taste my
steel? I am Pascalet Layet, peasant.”
“By my beard!” cried Jacques, briskly, “I
thought thou wert hung.”
“There you have it!” said the chevalier.
“Fiend take thy thoughts!” exclaimed Pascalet,
grasping his weapon; then, relinquishing the hilt,
he laughingly said, “I hear it was so reported.
Which side boasts your sword's exploits in this
warfare? Speak; art thou a rebel?”
“No, good Pascalet, not I. I am a true man.”
“We must not delay here, Pascalet,” said the
chevalier; “if he is thy countryman, press him for
our service. He can wield an oar as well as a
musket.”
“A musket? I'll warrant he never put finger to
one in his life,” said Pascalet, as he proceeded to
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draw out the boat. “Hast thou e'er pulled trigger,
peasant?”
“I have pointed my gun many a time at the enemy,”
replied Jacques, stoutly; “but, somehow,
I couldn't have the heart, when I knew 'twas loaded
with a bullet, to fire it right against men's broad
breasts. I haven't loaded with bullets since I like
to ha' fired and killed a red-coated soldier once.
'Tis cruel wicked to kill folks; and I thinks it be
just full as wicked to kill a good many in a heap,
like to-day, as to slay one at a time; but the great
uns don't think so, and they knows best.”
Thus speaking, he put his shoulder to the boat,
and, with the aid of Pascalet, floated it.
“There's philosophy for you, Pascalet. Your
friend is not so green as you think,” said the chevalier,
stepping into the boat.
“A mere suckling! Balaam's ass speaking by
dint of beating. Take that oar, peasant, and see
if thou hast the wit to pull it. A greater miracle
than thy presence here has not been in Rome. Thy
dam should not have weaned thee till thou hadst cut
thy wisdom-teeth. Now—dip deep! Look not
round if thy oar happen to knock a fish on the head,
or thou wilt suddenly feel thy bones sorer than thy
conscience will be at the deed.”
Jacques mechanically seated himself on the
thwarts, and pulled at the after-oar by Pascalet's
order. Pascalet placed himself behind him and
pulled the bow-oar, which he brought with violence
against his back at every “feather” caught by
the sweep of the inexperienced rower, like one with
whom cruelty was habitual, and who was gratified
at having an old victim once more in his grasp.
The headland they left was directly opposite
Crown Point, now called Corlear's Hook, then halt
a league above the town. A few scattered houses,
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with pastures, gardens, and forests, were its features
at that period: now it is in the centre of the city,
which has grown more than a league beyond it,
dense with houses, thronged with population, and
its shores lined with wharves and shipping.
The water was perfectly smooth, reflecting the
minutest stars in its clear mirror as the boat glided
out from the land and held its way to the opposite
shore, with many a curse from the cruel Pascalet,
and many a groan from the patient, enduring
Jacques, against whose back his old tormentor kept
up a regular system of annoyance—the pastime of
a spirit that, like his own, found delight only in inflicting
pain.
The river was deserted. No vessels rode at anchor
in the stream or lay by the shore. Commerce
had folded her wings at the approach of war, or,
spreading them, had taken her flight to other seas.
Their boat seemed to be the only inhabitant of
the waters. At length the shores of Long Island
became more indistinct, and the trees and an occasional
dwelling on the side towards which they
were steering stood out from the obscurity, till at
length the dark outline of the edifices of the city
could be traced against the sky. They shot close
into the land where the trees overhung the water.
After looking cautiously around, they landed, and,
securing their boat to a projecting root, covered it
with branches. The chevalier now questioned
Pascalet respecting the course he intended to pursue,
and then bade him lead on.
Without ascending the bank to avoid some detachments
of the enemy stationed not far from the
river, they traversed the beach until they came to
the place from which Arden had embarked to escort
Eugenie to Kip's Bay.
Pascalet skulked along the shore with the
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[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
confident pace and direct advance of one familiar with the
localities. When he came in sight of the platform
before mentioned and the boats moored around it, he
suddenly stopped, discovering that it was occupied
by a sentinel. After delaying a moment to reconnoitre,
making a gesture of caution, he crept forward
on his knees, bringing a tree in a line between
his course and the soldier; then, carefully watching
his opportunity, as the man turned in his walk he
put off his shoes, bounded forward with the lightness
of a cat, and sprung upon the platform. The
next instant he was on the man's back, with his
fingers firmly grasping his throat. The soldier, in
surprise and agony, dropped his musket into the
water, and, after a brief struggle, fell to the platform;
but the noise of his fall was skilfully broken
by the cool and cautious assassin, who drew his
knife as he fell and buried it in his heart: he then
pitched the body over into the water. This was
all done in a moment of time.
“That was a needless blow, Pascalet,” coolly
said the chevalier, who now came up; “ 'twould
have been enough to take his arms.”
“Ay, and so let him loose to set a party of dragoons
upon our heels. What's one man's blood,
more or less, in the count of to-day's sport?”
“Hast thee, in verity, slain the soldier I but now
saw walking so bravely here?” inquired Jacques,
trembling and breathing with difficulty from terror.
“In verity have I,” answered Pascalet, wiping
his blade upon the skirt of his frock; “and I will
send thee to keep him company unless thou keep
thy tongue and curiosity to thyself. Am I to account
to thee for every fool's blood I chance to
spill? Follow, and, if thou art wise, shut thy jaws
and use thy feet!”
Pascalet again took the lead and passed up the
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lane along which the carriage had driven with
Arden and Eugenie; and, turning to the left into
the road leading to the city, the party proceeded
at a swift pace towards the place of meeting chosen
by the conspirators.
Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1838], Burton, or, The sieges. Volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf157v2].
