THE OLD CONTINENTAL; OR, THE PRICE OF LIBERTY. BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE, ” &c. , &c. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. CHAPTER I.
THE OLD SUGAR-HOUSE—A REVOLUTIONARY WORTHY—
LABOUR IN VAIN—THE GOOD EFFECTS OF A LITTLE IMPATIENCE—
A SAGACIOUS CONJECTURE, FOLLOWED BY A
LUCKY DISCOVERY—A SHOUT—A MIDNIGHT RAMBLE, ENDING
IN MEETING WITH A FRIEND—RATS AND RIVINGTON'S
GAZETTE—OUR HERO IS CURED OF CERTAIN COMPLAINTS
ON THE HOMŒPATHIC PRINCIPLE.
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The old sugar-house to which our hero and his companion
in misfortune were consigned, is still standing[1]
to remind us of the sufferings of our fathers, and the
price they paid for liberty. To those who have never
seen the building, it may not be amiss to state that it
is a large, massive, gloomy pile of red-stone, with narrow
grated windows, which gives it the air of a prison;
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standing at the northeast corner of the yard of the
Dutch church fronting on Liberty street, which, during
the occupation of the city by the British, was used as
a riding-school. The aspect of the structure is forbidding,
corresponding with the recollections which will
long accompany its contemplation, by the descendants
and countrymen of many nameless and humble patriots
that here became the martyrs to the oppression of
a haughty parent, and a petty tyrant whose infamous
name is forever associated with the recollection of
their fate.
It may perhaps furnish an explanation, though not
an apology for the harsh treatment inflicted on these
unfortunate men, to state the probable causes which
led to such frequent violation of the usages of civilized
warfare. The people of the united colonies when they
took up arms to repel, if not actual despotism, at least
principles which, if silently acquiesced in, would have
inevitably led to that result, were looked upon by the
mother country as rebels resisting the just prerogatives
of their sovereign. They were not considered
in the light of foreign enemies engaged in authorized
and honourable warfare, but as traitors to their king,
ungrateful and rebellious children rising against the
sacred authority of the parent, and violating all the
long recognised obligations of nature and society.
Those great principles which are now gradually becoming
familiar to the contemplation of the masses of
Europe, and which have been not only successfully
vindicated, but exemplified by the people of the United
States, were at that time considered as heresies of the
most aggravated kind, equally at war with all good
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government, and all true piety. Hence, when the
people of a great and growing country rose with one
heart and one mind to assert the rights of Englishmen,
they were viewed as no better than banditti, equally
beyond the protection of the laws, and the settled
usages of arms. When the abused and down-trodden
captives complained of their ill treatment, they
were sneeringly told that they might thank the clemency
of their captors that they escaped the gallows.
This barbarous policy was after a time arrested by the
firmness of Washington, who threatened retaliation;
but still, throughout the whole course of the struggle,
the treatment of American prisoners was, in most
cases, harsh and unfeeling.
To these general, were added special causes which
operated to increase the hardships of John and his
companion. They were strongly suspected of having
been engaged in some secret scheme for obtaining
and communicating information of a dangerous character,
and it was believed that a series of sufferings
and inflictions might at length overcome their obstinacy,
and produce a disclosure in the hope of being
relieved. They were accordingly confined in separate
cellars, little better than dungeons, underneath the
sugar-house, where they were kept on a scanty allowance
of food, in utter loneliness, where nothing but a
dim twilight reigned all the day, and nothing could be
seen but the grave-stones in the churchyard. The
cellars were without flooring, and strewed with rubbish,
producing an impression of utter neglect and
desolation.
Here he was left to enjoy the miserable luxury of
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his own sad thoughts. Day after day, and night after
night, wore tediously away in one dead uniformity—
so irksome and intolerable, that when the unfeeling
instrument of old Cunningham, the provost-marshal,
came to bring his scanty allowance of unwholesome
food, and insult him with his ribaldry, it was rather a
relief than a hardship. It roused his feelings from the
dead level of hopeless despondency, and set his blood
once more coursing rapidly through his veins, with a
motion something like life and animation.
One day, this wretched and vulgar instrument of
oppression, taunted him more bitterly than usual, while
relating some new disaster that had befallen his suffering
country. He told him that Sir Henry Clinton
was chasing Mr. Washington, as he called him, the
rebel general, through New Jersey; that the people
were everywhere coming in to solicit pardon on their
knees for having dared to take arms against their lawful
sovereign; that all was over with the cause of rebellion;
and that their boasted hero and his abettors
would soon have a rope about their necks. He accompanied
all this with a tissue of gross personal reflections
on himself, his condition, and his prospects,
that roused him to desperation. He could command
himself no longer, but suddenly springing upon the reviler,
threw him to the ground, and placing his knee
upon his breast, began a course of discipline that
caused him to roar most lustily. His cries brought
the sentinel stationed without to his relief, who,
amazed at the sight of his prostrate comrade, made a
push with his bayonet, which might have proved fatal
to our hero, had he not dexterously put it aside, so that
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it merely grazed his ribs, and damaged his linen to
a serious extent.
Resistance being unavailing, he was secured, ironed,
and treated with still more severity. Though blessed
with a fine constitution, and great vigour of body, he,
in the course of a few days, found himself declining into
weakness, languor, and weariness. No prospect of
release presented itself, even in dim perspective; for,
from what he had learned of his keeper, there appeared
little hope that any exchange of prisoners
would take place for a long while to come. The recollection
of his father's fate, of his home, and of one
yet dearer than all these, whom he should probably
never see more, all coming in aid of his fears for his
country, prostrated his firmness, and reduced him almost
to despair. He now scarcely stirred from his
bed of straw; and all the livelong, tedious day, was
spent in melancholy musing on the past, or bitter anticipations
of the future.
As thus, he one day sat, unconsciously scraping with
his bare foot, in the rubbish of the cellar, he felt it
pricked by something pointed and sharp. Without
any precise motive he sought what it was, and discovered
a rusty nail, which, it instantly occurred to him,
might be converted to some useful purpose. Groping
about further, he found various pieces of old iron,
which appeared to have lain there a long time unnoticed.
A sudden hope flashed upon his mind, and
hiding the new found treasures under his bed, he proceeded
to examine the grated window of his miserable
abode. The scrutiny afforded him little comfort.
The walls were thick, and firmly cemented. The iron
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bars were strong, forming squares of not more than
four inches diameter, and appearing deeply incorporated
with the solid stone. None of the implements he
had discovered among the rubbish afforded the material
for a saw sufficiently hard to operate on these
bars, even if it were in his power to convert them into
such an instrument, and once more he sat down to
chew the bitter cud of despair.
But this was not his element. His natural spirit
was elastic and vigorous. There was a spice of foolhardiness
in his disposition, which, when it prompts to
successful daring, is lauded as the inspiration of courage
and genius, but when it leads to disaster and defeat,
dwindles into folly or desperation. Perhaps the
world is right in judging of men by the event of their
undertakings, since, however desperate they may
seem, they are justified by success. The chances
may, indeed, appear to be a hundred or a thousand to
one against them; but what is chance but a Jack of
both sides, one moment an enemy, the next a friend
smoothing the path, and working miracles greater
than those of witchcraft or magic. Be this as it may,
our hero was not a man to calculate chances when
the case was already desperate. He could not be
worse off than he was, in his own opinion; and the
result of his deliberations was a determination to go
to work at once, let what might be the consequences.
He remembered how the soft water wears away the
hard rock, and that a little every day makes a mickle
at the end of the year.
The visits of his keeper were so perfectly uniform,
that there was little danger of discovery; and the
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gloomy solitude of the churchyard secured him from
observation in that quarter. Animated by these favourable
circumstances, he set himself to work with
the nail, the point of which he had sharpened against
the wall, and laboured until fatigue compelled him to
desist for a time. His design was to pick out the
mortar, by which a large stone on each side of the
window was cemented to the others, and thus, if possible,
detach them, so that they could be removed and
the iron bars withdrawn. When tired, he stood for a
while contemplating his work, but he could scarcely
see what he had done. The mortar was of the olden
time, such as we seldom see in these degenerate days.
It was as hard as flint.
Still something had been done. He had made a
beginning, and a beginning, if persevered in, must inevitably
come to an end. His progress was, indeed,
almost imperceptible, but though slow, it was sure,
and to hasten slowly is the shortest way to success in
the end. At all events, he had an object in view—an
excitement—something to employ his mind and exercise
his body. In short, he was inspired by a hope,
which, however distant and uncertain, was sufficient
to stimulate him to exertion, and arrest the progress
of that leaden apathy which is the invariable concomitant
of despair. He only remitted his exertions
when he expected a visit from his keeper, or when
wearied to absolute exhaustion, and passed a good
portion of the night in his laborious occupation.
As his progress became more apparent, he took the
precaution to fill up the crevice with mortar, prepared
by mixing some of his allowance of water with the
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earth of his prison floor, in order to guard against a
discovery previous to the visits of his attendant. Thus
he went on from day to day, and week to week; but
his progress was so slow, that he calculated one night
after labouring till he became quite exhausted, that at
the rate he was going on, it would take at least two
years to complete his work. The conviction, extinguished
the hope by which he had hitherto been
sustained, and drove him to desperation. A fit
of sudden phrensy came over him, and he seized the
iron bars of the window as if to vent his rage on the
great obstacle to his escape. To his utter astonishment,
the bars yielded to his hand, and fell inwards to
the ground, coming nigh breaking his head. The cellar
had been occupied by a criminal, condemned to
death for some offence by a court-martial. While
here, he had been furnished by an accomplice or
friend, with the means of sawing the bars, and had
succeeded so far as to render his escape almost certain
the very next night, when his fate overtook him,
and he was executed the day before. This happened
but very recently preceding the capture of our hero,
and the state of the window remained undiscovered,
until he fortunately lost all his patience, and thus demonstrated
by the event that it is sometimes highly
judicious to fall into a passion. Fearing the noise of
the falling bars might have been heard by the sentinel
without, he hastily replaced them, and throwing
himself on his straw, pretended to be fast asleep,
though, as might be expected, his mind was busily
employed in pondering over his present situation and
prospects. One great obstacle to his escape was
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removed, but there was another equally insuperable in
his way. His legs were ironed, and admitting he managed
to leave his cell, it was next to impossible to escape
speedy detection afterwards. His hopes died
away with this conviction, and once more he gave
himself up to the most gloomy anticipations.
From this state he was roused by the sentinel
whose duty it was to go the rounds of the night, and
who had heard the falling of the bars, although he
knew not whence the noise proceeded. He entered
with a light, and commenced a scrutiny which made
the heart of the prisoner throb with intense anxiety.
He searched the cell in every part, examined the bed,
and coming to the window, where he discovered the
vestiges of John's labours with the rusty nail, laughed
with insulting scorn at his fruitless efforts. Last of
all, he held his light up to the window, when, as fortune
would have it, a puff of wind extinguished it instantaneously,
leaving them in utter darkness. The
soldier muttered a malediction, and groping his way
out, locked the door after him.
“He will return again with a light, and then a discovery
is inevitable,” thought John, who waited his
coming with moody resignation, or rather indifference.
But he returned no more, and the prisoner was left
without further interruption to his own reflections.
These, at length, led him to the probability, that the
person who sawed the bars might have left behind
him the implement by which he performed his work.
The thought at once roused him to action, and he resolved
to institute a search next morning. If found,
it would enable him to free himself from his shackles,
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and thus the great obstacle to his escape be removed.
Accordingly, soon as the day dawned in his gloomy
abode, he commenced a close scrutiny into every part
of his cell; but it was looking for a needle in a haystack,
and ever and anon he was on the point of abandoning
it as hopeless. The hour for bringing in his
breakfast, found him thus occupied, and he was somewhat
startled at seeing his keeper, accompanied by a
stranger he had never seen before, who bade the other
retire, lock the door, and wait outside.
“Well, young sir,” said he, abruptly, and in a harsh
tone, “are you not almost tired of your pleasant lodgings?”
John rallied his manhood, and answered in a careless,
bantering mood, “No; I should not much mind
spending all my days here. It is a quiet place, only a
little too dark.”
“The d—l you wouldn't! Come, come, young man,
none of your jokes—I came to talk seriously with
you.”
“Well, sir, talk to me seriously, and I will answer
you seriously.”
“Well then, seriously, would you not like to be permitted
to return to your friends?”
“Most certainly, sir. I am not in love with these
irons, nor this miserable abode under ground.”
“Well, you are at liberty to leave it at any time, on
one or two conditions.”
“Be good enough to name them,” said John, eagerly.
The stranger then advanced close to him, and addressed
John almost in a whisper: “You have been
employed by Mr. Washington to gain information.
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You are in his confidence, then, and you have only to
do for Sir Henry what you were employed to do for
him, to entitle yourself not only to freedom, but to
honours and rewards.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered John.
“Thank you, sir—what do you mean by that?”
“I mean, sir, that I will not accept your conditions.”
“Your cause is ruined.”
“It is not the less a good cause.”
“Your boasted Washington is flying before Sir
Henry.”
“He will turn one of these days on his pursuers.”
“The rebels are coming in crowds to accept the
king's mercy.”
“The tories you should say. I will never believe
that one honest, true hearted whig will ever ask or
accept pardon for having had the courage to defend
his rights.”
“Confound your impudence—do you mean to say
that subjects have a right to rebel against their lawful
sovereign?”
“Certainly, if their sovereign acts unlawfully, I do.”
“Very well—very good—very orthodox, Mr. Rebel.
I'll not dispute the point with you.”
“Why not, sir—you have the best of the argument.
You have the right of the strongest on your side, you
see,” said John, pointing to his irons.
“So, sir—you are sneering at me, are you? Do you
know who I am sir?”
“No sir—nor meaning no offence—do I wish to
know.”
“My name is Cunningham,” and the speaker paused,
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drawing himself up to his full height, and waiting the
event of this formidable annunciation.
But the effect was by no means what he anticipated.
John had heard a hundred, nay hundreds of stories of
the petty tyranny, the base impositions, the unfeeling
insolence of this man towards his helpless countrymen,
and the mention of his name instead of cowing his
spirit to submission, only roused a spirit of indignation
which over-mastered all his prudence. To the question,
if he had ever heard that name before, he replied
with scorn and bitterness.
“Yes, I have heard it before, from many a poor
prisoner who coupled it with curses. It is the name
of one who uses an office none but cruel, sordid, low
minded men ever seek or accept, for the purpose of
oppressing his fellow creatures; filching from the
wretches whom the fortune of war has rescued from
death on the field of battle to endure a thousand deaths
afterwards, their scanty allowance of miserable food,
thus heaping up riches at the expense of their sufferings;
insulting their cause and their country; outraging
their feelings while he starves their bodies, and
adding to the miseries of confinement every ingenious
device of petty malignity. You perceive I know you,
sir.”
During this imprudent speech, Cunningham was
boiling with rage and mortification. Its truth added
to its severity, and he became for a few moments
speechless with passion. Then lifting his cane, he
advanced towards the prisoner, muttering unintelligible
oaths, and was about to give him a blow, when
John coolly and sternly said:
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“That's right, sir—prove the truth of all I have said
by beating a prisoner in irons. Strike, sir, but take
care, for my arm is free, and I will smite you to the
earth, if I die for it the next minute.”
Whether it was that the provost marshal still retained
amidst the rubbish of his worthlessness, some
little remains of that soldierly feeling which forbids
offering violence to the defenceless, or was overawed
by the threat still ringing in his ears, is somewhat
doubtful, but certain it is, he lowered his cane and
answered John in a tone of suppressed bitterness:
“You are right, young man. I will not disgrace
myself by striking you. Though an insolent rebel,
you are a defenceless man. But mark me, sir, you
shall pay for this. I have the means, and the will to
try your mettle. You seem a brave lad,” added he in
a tone of significant irony, “and I like to experiment
on such materials. I'll put you to the proof before
many days are over, and perhaps give you reason to
curse me.”
Saying this he departed, leaving our hero to cogitate
on the extreme imprudence of his behaviour on
this trying occasion. The significant threat of the
petty tyrant, served, however, to rouse him to resume
the search which the entrance of Cunningham had
interrupted. But now, as before, the search was vain,
and he relinquished his labours with his hopes. Remaining
thus in the numbness of despondency, it suddenly
occurred to him that he had not searched the
bed, and his hopes revived a little. He commenced
playing his last stake, and on a close examination discovered
that one of the corners of the miserable, filthy
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bed had been ripped open sufficiently to admit his
hand. Thrusting it eagerly in, and feeling amongst
the straw, he at length drew out something which,
on carrying to the window, he found was a little saw
made of a watch-spring. His heart leaped in his bosom,
and resolving not to lose a moment, lest his
purpose should be thwarted by the fulfilment of Cunningham's
threat, he eagerly commenced to operate
on his irons. While thus employed, he expected every
moment to see it put in execution; and at every noise
without, a cold chill thrilled to his heart. But not a
soul come near him, and strange to say, he rejoiced
at going without his dinner, though both hungry and
athirst. It once or twice, indeed, occurred to him, that
the tyrant of the prison intended to bring him to submission
by starvation; but he felt that the moment he
relieved himself from his irons, he might defy the old
sinner and all his works.
Fortunately, as he thought, the night set in with
a storm of thunder and lightning. The rain poured
down in torrents; bright, and almost incessant flashes,
followed by quick crashes, alone, from time to time,
changed the deep gloom into a sheet of living fire,
leaving the obscurity still deeper, as it passed away.
The streets became deserted, both man and beast
having sought their homes. With a view, if possible,
to escape from York Island before the day dawned,
John had decided to leave his prison as soon as the
hour for bringing in his evening meal had passed.
The hour came, but no supper, and it seemed now evident
that the intention of the provost was to put him
on short allowance, if not to starve him outright. He
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now prepared himself for the crisis of his fate. Approaching
the window, he cautiously removed the
grating, and putting out his head listened and looked
with intense anxiety. Nothing was heard but the
concert of the elements; nothing seen but the swift
flashes of lightning, disclosing objects for an instant,
then leaving them in utter darkness. He passed himself
through the window, and stood forth in the open
air a free man once more.
His course led him across the churchyard, where
was stationed a sentinal, who like a discreet and
prudent man had sought refuge from the pelting storm,
by ensconcing himself within the recess of the south
door of the church, where he remained perfectly quiet.
It should have been noted before, that when John was
taken before Sir Henry Clinton, he was accommodated
with a suit of coarse white cotton, in order that he
might not offend his excellency with his beggar's rags,
and that he wore it still. It was a little soiled, to be
sure, but was in a fair way of being well washed on
this occasion. The darkness was profound, except at
momentary intervals, and our hero's first exploit was
to tumble into a new made grave, half filled with
water, a rather ominous accident. Whether a pause
in the storm just at that moment enabled the sentinel
to distinguish the splash our hero made in falling, or
accident drew his attention in that direction, is not
known; but certain it is, he happened to be looking
that way, just as a vivid flash of lightning disclosed
the whole figure of John emerging from the grave.
If there ever walked a ghost, the sentinel had a fair
excuse to conclude this was one. He acted from
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irresistible impulse, fired his gun at random, fell flat on
his face on the stone steps, and roared out murder
with all his might.
Our hero, though he did not mistake the sentinel for
a ghost, was somewhat more alarmed than if he had
been a true believer, and, in common parlance, “made
tracks” across the churchyard without looking behind
him, or, if the truth must be told, before, either, for
there was little use for his eyes except when the
lightning flashed them blind. He trusted altogether
to Providence and his legs, and by great good fortune,
at length broke his nose against the fence fronting on
Nassau-street. Scrambling over it, without stopping
to grumble or swear, as some people do on such occasions,
he let himself down on the other side, and as he
bade adieu to the old sugar-house, could not help
laughing to hear the doughty sentinel roaring out
“Murder! fire! help! help!” in the midst of the uproar
of the elements. The discharge of the gun, and
subsequent outcries, roused the guard and brought
them to his rescue. He was found lying flat on his
face, kicking with all his might, and carried to quarters,
where, recovering his recollection by degrees, he
astounded his auditors with one of the best authenticated
ghost stories on record. Many believed him;
some laughed at him; and it was not until next morning,
that the worshipful Provost Cunningham, for the
purpose of ascertaining the effect of his experiment
on John, having paid him a second visit, discovered
the whole mystery. Immediate measures were taken
to secure him, the result of which will appear in the
sequel.
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In the meantime, John pursued his way through the
storm and darkness, with all the speed in his power.
But his long absence from the city had rendered his
recollection somewhat indistinct, and this, aided by
the obscurity of a stormy night, greatly embarrassed
his progress. He continued to verify the old proverb,
“The more haste, the less speed,” and finally, becoming
fairly bewildered, lost his way, and wandered he
knew not where. Thus threading the mazes of the
dark, muddy streets, without rudder, compass, or landmark,
he at length saw a light at a distance, and having
no other alternative, made towards it with all
speed, in the hope of ascertaining at least where he
was by the aid of its glimmering. Cautiously approaching,
he discovered that it proceeded from a window,
the shutters of which were not closed, into which
he took the liberty of peeping, and saw, to his great
surprise, as well as gratification, the stranger who had
been captured with him at Spuyten Duyvel, and committed
to prison at the same time with himself. Hastily
drawing back, he paused a few moments for reflection.
There was now no hope of clearing the
lines on the island before daylight, and consequently
a place of concealment during the coming day was
absolutely necessary to his safety. He reflected, also,
that he had this man in his power, should he betray
him, and that a regard to his own safety would prevent
him from endangering that of his old companion.
His determination was soon made, and he cautiously
knocked at the door. After a brief silence, a voice,
which he recognised as that of the stranger, inquired,
“Who's there?” “A friend,” replied John, in a low
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tone. The door was then cautiously opened by the
stranger, who had many reasons for dreading nightly
visiters, and his dismay was evident, as, recognising
who it was, he hastily exclaimed—
“My God! what brought you here?”
“Let me come in, and I'll tell you.”
With evident unwillingness, the stranger complied,
and closing the shutters, again anxiously asked an explanation,
which was given in as few words as possible.
After reflecting a while, the stranger observed—
“Your situation is exceedingly critical, not to say
desperate. It is now impossible for you to leave the
city to-night, and old Cunningham will move heaven
and earth to find you. You must remain here till tomorrow
night.”
“But the boat—could I not escape in your boat?”
eagerly asked John.
“What, in such a night as this? Besides, I have no
boat. I sold it to avoid further suspicion, just as I
keep my window open to let them see I am quietly at
home. No, you must remain here to-morrow, though
it will be at the risk of my life, perhaps.”
“Then I will not remain,” replied John; “if I am
retaken, they can only put me back where I was.
Only allow me to rest myself, and give me something
to eat, for I am half starved, and I will leave you before
daylight and take my chance.”
“When I said it would be at the risk of my life.”
answered the other, “I did not mean that would deter
me from receiving and secreting you. I risk it every
day for our cause and our country, and I have seen
enough of you to know you for one of their bravest
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defenders. Stay where you are, while I get you
something to eat.” Saying this, he left the room, and
soon returned with food and drink, of which, as may
be presumed, his guest partook most heartily. After
he had satisfied his hunger, he addressed his host—
“But how did you manage to get out of prison?”
“I have friends in the royalist ranks, who interceded
for me, and I have money to make more, if necessary.
But I am still suspected, and, I believe,
watched. You must, therefore, consent to take the
lodging I shall provide for you. It is under ground,
to be sure, but you are used to that, you know. You
are lucky in finding me alone, to-night. My wife is
on a visit to Long Island, for a few days, and our only
attendant is with her; so, you see, I keep bachelor's
hall for the present. But it is time to prepare for
your accommodation, for the night is far spent. Follow
me, and lend a helping hand.” John assisted him
in removing a bed and other necessaries into a back
cellar, all which he was directed to hide in an empty
hogshead, and turn it upside down in the morning.
He then showed him a concealed trap-door, which
opened into a lower cellar, where he might hide himself
in case of an alarm. “I must not see you again.
I am not to know you are here; and as you will have
rather a lonely time of it, here is something to amuse
you to-morrow, if you can find light enough to read.”
He then handed him a file of Rivington's Royal Gazette,
and after cautioning John to be quiet, and not
go near the cellar-windows, shook hands and departed,
leaving our hero to his repose.
But sleep visited not his lids, which, like quarrelsome
neighbours, refused to come together, and he lay
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awake for hours, tortured with solicitude as to his future
fate. The idea of being again brought within
the toils of old Cunningham, was inexpressibly revolting,
and he resolved, if possible, never to be again
taken alive. Then came the vision of a fair and gentle
maid, whom he fancied he saw mourning his absence,
or, perhaps, distorting his sudden and mysterious
disappearance into a desertion of the cause of
liberty. The picture was cruelly affecting to his love
and his pride, and brought bitterness to his heart. At
length, however, wearied and worn down by his previous
struggles and long confinement, he sunk to rest
under the weight of his sorrows.
But there was no rest for him here. The moment
he closed his eyes, what seemed an army of rats, sallied
forth, and assaulted him in divers ways; at one
time, scampering athwart his face, and peradventure
assaulting his nose; at another, nibbling at his toe;
while, at times, they would appear to muster all their
forces and gallop over his body, squealing and squeaking
defiance, as it were, of the insolent intruder upon
their hitherto undisputed domain. Then they made
assaults on his stock of provisions, which he was finally
obliged to take into bed with him, and defend tooth
and nail. In short, they gave him no peace; and
such is the virtue of petty vexations, that, from the
moment the plague of the rats commenced, he never
once thought of old Cunningham, the vision of the
fair maid mourning his absence, or the dark future
before him. It was not until the opening dawn scared
away his persecutors, that he fell into a deep sleep,
that lasted till the sun shone into his cellar-window,
and long after his usual hour of rising.
eaf315v2.n1[1] It has since been pulled down.
-- 023 --
CHAPTER XIII.
JOHN REALIZES THE PREDICTION OF THE OLD CONTINENTAL,
AND PUTS ON A BRITISH UNIFORM—IS CUT SHORT IN A
CAPITAL SPEECH, AND IS PUSHED OUT OF DOORS—NIGHT
ERRANTRY—HE TRUSTS A WOMAN, AND LO! WHAT FOLLOWED—
MOUNTS ANOTHER MAN'S HORSE, BY MISTAKE, IT
MAY BE PRESUMED—A RACING AND SWIMMING MATCH—
MANY A SLIP BETWEEN CUP AND LIP—HE FALLS OUT
OF THE FRYING PAN INTO THE FIRE.
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
The storm had passed away when our hero awoke;
the sun glanced his golden beams even into the deep
recesses of the cellar, and the busy racket of the town,
announced that the greatest of all slaves, the civilized
man, had commenced his daily round of money-making
and money-spending. Each one, among the many
thousand citizens, was chacing the phantom happiness
under a different disguise, unconscious that in every
shape, and under every mark, it was only a spectre
he was pursuing. The shopkeeper was marshalling
his wares at the windows in showy array; the cartman
was rattling over the pavement; the milkmen
cudgelling their ponies, or beating up their tin pails,
and calling up the loitering kitchen maids in a language
not to be found in any of the books; the marketwomen
and butchers, were cheating the citizens, the
citizens cheating each other; and the stiff, upright
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
red-coat soldiers, were strutting about, thinking of love,
glory, and plunder, or running in debt without paying.
The day was to John one of alternate impatience
and depression. He had in some measure reconciled
himself to his old quarters in the sugar-house; but the
short glimpse of liberty he enjoyed, even in the
midnight storm, was inexpressibly welcome, and only
made his present confinement more intolerable. As
a last resource, he resorted to the file of Rivington's
Royal Gazette, where he was greeted with such dismal
accounts of the defeats, the sufferings, and cowardice
of his countrymen, coupled with remarks so
contemptuous and irritating, that he felt his blood
boiling and bubbling in his veins. Judging from these
relations, he feared it was all over with his country,
and that should he escape his miseries now, it would
be only to become the slave of a power content with
nothing less than absolute supremacy. Coming at
length to on exquisite specimen of scurrilous loyalty,
he could contain himself no longer, but dashsd the
papers to the ground, kicked and stamped on them, and
almost annihilated various and special transendentalisms
of loyality, as well as veracity, that would have
done credit to a British traveller, and not disgraced
the old termagant of the London Quarterly Review.
After this victory he felt considerably relieved, and
passed the rest of the day with a tolerable degree of
quiet resignation.
When night came, and the shops were shut, when
the streets no longer echoed to the footsteps of the
busy throng, the stranger paid his guest a visit, bringing
with him a bundle, which he announced as
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containing a suit of women's clothes, which he spread
out before our hero, who demanded for what purpose
they were intended.
“You sir,” replied the other, “It is quit eimpossible
you should escape in that white dress, which can be
seen half way across the island in these moonlight
nights. You must put these on, and pass for a
woman.”
“Excuse me my good friend, I shall do no such
thing. If I am taken it shall be as a man, not as a
woman. No, give me a sword, only give me a sword,
and let me fight my way if necessary. I am determined
never to be taken alive again, if any chance is
left me to sell my life. Besides, as a woman, I shall
certainly be stopped, for what business can a woman
have to be wandering alone at midnight. If I am
seen, my walk will be sufficient, and if I speak, my
voice will betray me.”
“I believe you are right,” answered the other, after
pausing a few moments. “And now I recollect, there
is in my possession a suit of British uniform, which—
which I sometimes find useful,”—he said this with a
significant smile—“if you prefer it.”
“By all means,” cried John, interrupting him, “let
me have that, let me wear anything but petticoats.”
Heavens! thought he, what would Jane say if she
saw me in petticoats!
“It will do,” cried the stranger. “You shall, if seen
or intercepted, pass for a messenger carrying a letter
from the commander-in-chief to the officer commanding
the outposts. Wait a moment, and I will go and
write one, and bring the uniform.”
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
He returned in a few minutes with the letter and
the uniform, which John eagerly seized, and disrobing
himself, put on the red-coat and its appendages, which
he found fitted tolerably well. But one thing was
wanting, and that was a sword, which he was assured
would not be necessary, and perhaps only bring him
into trouble. On this point, however, he was peremptory;
he would not stir a step without some means
of defending himself, and the other at length assented.
When the sword was brought, John seized it eagerly,
at the same time exclaiming, “now I am a man, and
have the means of dying like a man! but hark!”
“It is only the patrol going the rounds. It has
passed, and now is your time. Come, rise and go
forth, and God speed you.” John followed him out of
his den, and the stranger cautiously reconnoitring from
the front door, ascertained that the coast was clear,
and the sky becoming cloudy.
“Now is your time,” said he, “no thanks—away,
and my best wish is never to see you more, until this
city returns to the hands of its lawful owners. Here,
take this,”—handing him money—“you may want
it by the way. Now go, and again I say, God speed
you.”
“I'm off,” replied the other; “but before I go, let
me assure you of my grateful recollection of your
kindness. I know what you risk by it, and so sure as
I live, if I escape this night, I will never cease to
serve you with my heart, my hand, and my sword.
Should you get into any difficulty on my account, let
me know it, and I swear by my Maker I will give
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
myself up to old Cunningham in exchange, fight for you,
die for you, if it be necessary to your—”
“Get away with your long speeches,” interrupted
the stranger, half jesting, half earnest; “never fear
for me, but look to yourself. You are a brave lad,
and I hope we shall meet again. In the meantime,
get about your business.” Saying this, he fairly pushed
our hero into the street, and shut the door in his
face.
His object was to make the best of his way to Harlem
river, and swim it at some point where it was
narrowest. Once on the other side, and his escape
would be almost certain, as the enemy had no post
beyond York Island in that direction. Fortunately,
or unfortunately, as the case might be, the night became
dark, and though this circumstance embarrassed
his progress, it at the same time diminished the chances
of discovery. He found little difficulty in clearing the
city, the extent of which was not what it is now, and
soon found himself on the road to Kingsbridge. Nothing
happened to impede his progress, or excite apprehension,
until he came to the lines extending from
the East river to the Hudson. Here, he paused, to
reflect on the course most proper to pursue; and having
decided this point, he crept cautiously along, under
cover of darkness, gradually approaching the lines
with the intention, if he found a chance which was
not desperate, to attempt passing through them. But
his scrutiny only ended in perpetual disappointment,
for the sentinels were placed at such short intervals
from each other that the prospect was hopeless.
It more than once occurred to him, to present
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
himself boldly under cover of his disguise, exhibit his letter
to a sentinel, and demand permission to pass. But
when he reflected on the probability, if not certainty
of being taken before the officer of the guard, and his
utter inability to undergo the slightest examination,
he decided to make this the last resort. He now resumed
his peregrination, and traversed from one extremity
of the lines to the other without success, when
the crowing of a cock warned him of the approach
of day. It smote on his ear like a passing bell, and
announced the absolute necessity of seeking some
place of concealment, as well as rest; for he was not
the man he was before his long confinement, which
had for the time impaired his vigour, and now found
himself almost overcome with fatigue.
The crowing of a second cock, which was answered
by others, warned him that not a moment was to be
lost, and he hastily turned away from the vicinity of
the lines to seek some place where he might hide himself.
Groping his way among the swamps, and thickets
of vines and briars, in the interior of the island,
he, just at the dawn of day, suddenly came upon a little
hut, which sufficiently indicated the poverty of its occupants,
if such it had, and retiring behind a tuft of
alders reconnoitred the premises. Nothing about the
hut, however, indicated that it was inhabited. Neither
domestic animal, nor domestic bird, appeared, nor
any garden, or cultivated spot of any kind, gave token
of human labour. He was about to advance and try
the door, when at that moment it was opened by a female,
who stepped forth, and after gathering a few
dry sticks, returned into the house. She seemed of a
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
middle age, and was poorly clad; but her garments
were neither ragged or dirty, and her face, so far as
he could distinguish through the gray dawn, was free
from those strong, indelible marks, which so unerringly
indicate bad passions and a dissolute life.
In a little while, the smoke curled forth from the
chimney of sticks and clay, and a savoury incense,
proceeding from broiled salt fish, saluted the nostrils
of the tired and hungry wayfarer, sorely tempting the
inward man to the imprudence of entering and partaking
thereof. There seemed no other human being
about the place but this lonely female, and he asked
of himself, when it was that a woman refused kindness
and relief to the hungry or distressed wanderer.
Encouraged by the reply of his own heart and his own
experience, he came forward with confidence, and presenting
himself at the door requested shelter and food.
The woman seemed neither alarmed or surprised,
while she made him this reply—
“I have nothing to give you. You have made me
a beggar already.”
“I will pay you for your kindness,” said John, showing
her a piece of gold.
“So you often told me before. The king pays you,
but you never pay anybody. Your coat is a license
for plundering us poor women. You will find breakfast
at your quarters, not here.”
“But I am starving.”
“So am I. This is my last meal, and you see there
is nothing to spare. You red coats have taken care
of that.”
She spoke with such bitter emphasis when alluding
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
to the red coats, that John began to hope she was a
rebel in her heart, and communed with himself whether
it would not be his best policy to disclose his real
character, and at once appeal to her sympathy as an
American soldier. It was a dangerous experiment,
but his case was desperate, and, as he decided, justified
the experiment.
“I suppose,” said he, “you have heard that the rebel
general is flying on his last legs through the Jerseys,
and that the cowardly Yankees are coming in by thousands,
with halters about their necks, to throw themselves
on the mercy of King George?”
The good woman, who was at that moment turning
a piece of salt fish on the gridiron, if three ribs, without
any legs, merit that respectable name, gave a sudden
irritable start, dropped the fish in the ashes, hastily
snatched it up, and turning full upon him, exclaimed,
echoing John's words—
“Rebel general—halters about their necks, do you
say? You'll be hanged before you see that day.”
There was no mistaking the action, the look, or the
tone, accompanying these words. “It is useless to
stay here,” continued she, “you get nothing from me,
for I have nothing left for you to buy or steal. If you
insult me, you will get as good as you bring; and if
you dare to use me ill, though I am but a woman, a
wretched, lonely woman, I have the will and the
strength of a man to defend myself. Go away, and
get your breakfast from King George.”
“King George owes me no breakfast. Though I
wear his livery, I am not his servant.”
“No! Well, now I come to look at you a little, you
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
don't look as if that coat was made for you. If you
hadn't shown me your gold, I could have almost sworn
you was an American. But the defenders of their
country have no money but rags.”
Being now fully assured, he at once disclosed his
name, the purpose of his disguise, and his present critical
situation. The woman listened with a friendly
interest, and at once offered him what food and shelter
it was in her power to afford. During their homely
repast, they talked over the best means of securing
his safety during the day, and his escape the ensuing
night. She declared that both would be exceedingly
difficult. Her hut was frequently visited by straggling
soldiers, who, in the wantonness of lawless power,
played those pranks which so often degrade the dignity
of that profession, which, more than any other,
should elevate men above robbing the weak, or insulting
the defenceless.
“But why do you remain alone in this wretched
hut, exposed to these insults and outrages?” asked
John.
“Because I have an only son, a prisoner in the city,
and go every day to carry him such little things as I
can procure for his comfort; and when I have nothing
to bring, I can still weep for him. I have tried to get
him released, but I fear he will at last be carried to
the hospital-ship, and die, as all do who go there, for
he is every day growing more pale and weakly.” The
poor mother wept as she told her story, and John, not
knowing how to comfort her, remained silent until she
recovered herself. He then told her he was very much
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
tired with his night's ramble, and asked permission to
rest on the bed standing in a corner of the room.
“Not there—not there!” exclaimed she, eagerly.
“You may be discovered. Can you sleep upon
straw?”
“Aye, on a rock!”
The good woman then pointed him the way up a
ladder into a little garret, where was a quantity of
straw, and strictly enjoining him not to stir whatever
might happen, left him, removing the ladder, which
she secreted outside the hut, after which she resumed
her household occupations. In less than ten minutes
our adventurer fell into a profound sleep, and for a
while forgot all his troubles.
From this blessed oblivion he was roused, after a
nap of some hours, by the tramp of horses about the
hut, mingled with the voices of his hostess and that
of men. Listening with intense and breathless anxiety,
he could distinguish the purport of their conversation.
The voice of the man was that of one inquiring
after himself, and that of the woman was disclaiming
all knowledge of such a person as he described, which
she could do with a safe conscience, as the fugitive
was represented in the dress in which he escaped from
prison.
The morning had disclosed his departure, and spoiled
the ghost story of the trusty sentinel, who never lived
to hear the last of that affair. The circumstance of
the sawing of the iron grating, produced a conviction
of his having had accomplices without, and this, together
with the zeal of old Cunningham to recover his
prey, caused more than usual solicitude for his
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
apprehension. Not being found in the city, patrols of horse
had been sent out in various directions, and the doughty
provost-marshal himself promised five guineas for
his body, dead or alive. One of his favourite experiments
on the powers of human endurance, had been
brought to an untimely close by the abrupt, unceremonious
evasion of his guest, and he felt all the mortification
of a scientific devotee at the failure of a pet
theory.
The colloquy between the hostess and her visiters,
became more and more interesting as it approached
the crisis, and the tenant of the garret felt his heart
die away, as he heard the leader of the party declare
his intention to carry his investigations into that quarter.
His detection was in that case inevitable, unless
he escaped beforehand. But the invention of our
hero was as quick as a hair-trigger, and he determined
on his course in an instant. He had noticed that there
was an opening in the old weather-beaten roof, close
to the chimney, apparently large enough for him to
pass through; and that the chimney, being such as
was once common in houses of the ordinary kind, was
composed of pieces of wood laid crosswise, the interstices
being filled up with mortar, and the ends projecting
out at the corners sufficiently to form a sort of
ladder, affording an easy ascent to the top.
The moment the real ladder was found, and applied
to the opening in the floor of the garret, he rose swiftly
and silently from his bed of straw, tripped on tiptoe
to the chimney, which he climbed up without much
difficulty, and emerged through the opening in the
roof to the top of the hut. Peeping warily round for
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
an instant or two, he saw with great satisfaction that
the whole party had left their horses, and were engaged
in the search, being confident that no enemy
could surprise them within their own lines. Quick
as thought, he slid down the roof to the ground,
and in a moment was on horseback, skirring like the
wind, while the party remained unconscious that he
had been there, or that he had escaped.
“What can that fellow be riding after at such a rate
over the common?” said the officer, who, having finished
his search in the garret, was looking out at the
door.
“What has become of my horse?” cried one of the
troopers.
“That fellow must have stolen him,” exclaimed another;
and in a trice, all but the unfortunate owner of
the horse, mounted in pursuit of the thief, or, as they
all believed, of some mischievous fellow-soldier who
was playing them a trick. And now commenced a
chase, such as had not been seen for many a day in
the renowned island of Manhattan, which, in compliance
with a vulgar custom, we have hitherto called
New York. John had made a fortunate selection, and
his horse kept the lead handsomely until he reached
the British lines, where a sentinel was on duty. Here,
holding up the letter with which he had been furnished,
and crying out, “For the commanding officer at
Kingsbridge,” he darted past without stopping, and
without any attempt to stop him, the sentinel having
either been taken by surprise, or presuming he was
the bearer of important despatches.
The arrival of the pursuers a few moments after,
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
explained the mistake, but threw little light on the
real state of the case, and at all events, it was now
too late to stop the fugitive, who continued on full
speed, while the others followed in his rear without
gaining upon him until he came to Harlem river, where
the stream was narrow. Here, he plunged in, and
had got nearly half-way over, when he heard a discharge
of pistols, and the bullets whistling about his
ears. Taking the hint, he urged forward his steed by
every means in his power, and had nearly reached the
opposite bank, when a fresh party arrived, and taking
for granted that he was a deserter, fired with better
aim. One of the balls struck his cap, and without
penetrating, occasioned such a sudden dizziness, that
as he mounted the bank of the river, he fell from his
horse, and, stunned with the blow and the fall, remained
insensible. In this helpless state he was easily
taken, and when he came to himself was carried back
to New York, not as the prisoner who had escaped
from the old sugar-house, but a British soldier who
had stolen a horse, and attempted to desert to the
rebels.
What might have been his ultimate destiny under
this misconception, no one can tell, had he not been
recognised by the soldier who had stood sentinel over
him while a prisoner, and subsequently, by the renowned
provost-marshal, who never forgot the face of
one whom he had marked out as a victim. Being seriously
ill from the effects of the blow on his head, his
fall, and the disappointment of all his hopes just at the
moment they seemed about to be realized, he was consigned
to the Hunter hospital-ship, which was moored
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in the East river, near the Wallabout. What happened
to him on this transition from purgatory to the
regions of darkness, despair, and death, the reader
will know in good time, should he deign to peruse the
next chapter of our humble tale.
-- 037 --
CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“No masts or sails these crowded ships adorn,
Dismal to view, neglected and forlorn,
From morn to eve, along the decks we lay,
Scorch'd into fevers by the solar ray;
No friendly awning cast a welcome shade,
Once it was promis'd, but was never made;
No favours could these sons of death bestow,
'Twas endless vengeance and eternal wo;
On every side dire objects met the sight,
And pallid forms, and murders of the night.”
Philip Freneau.
Those who derive their impressions of the hardships,
privations, and sufferings of the people of the
United States, during the war of independence, from
the general history of the times, will form but a vague
idea of their magnitude and extension. History, for
the most part, records but great events, and deals only
with those illustrious characters and actions, which
have an immediate or remote influence on the fate of
nations. The conflicts of great armies, the siege of
fortified places, and the sacking of cities, are carefully
recorded; while the plunder of harvest-fields, the robbery
of the husbandman of the fruits of his labours
and the necessaries of life, the burning of his home,
the slaughter of his wife and children, the perpetual
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
fears and never-ceasing insults and outrages, which
generally accompany the march of invading armies—
all these, if alluded to at all, are expressed in loose
generalities, which make little if any impression on
the mind. The sufferings of the individual are lost in
the mass of national distress, or only remembered in
traditions which grow more obscure and doubtful at
every succeeding generation, and come at last to be
considered either fabulous or doubtful.
The state of New York was among those which
suffered most severely in the struggle to maintain the
principles of the revolution. Her capital was occupied
by the enemy during almost the entire period of
the war; her western frontier was exposed to invasion
from Canada, to perpetual devastation and massacre
by the tories and Indians of the Six Nations, instigated
and led on by the Johnsons, the bloody Butlers, and the
savage Brant; and there was not a county in the state,
on which the foot of the invader was not imprinted
in the soil. The massacre of Cherry Valley, of Schoharie,
and other places, then almost without a name,
and the long succession of bloody atrocities along the
whole valley of the Mohawk, although only slightly
referred to, or not noticed at all in our general histories,
will long be remembered by the posterity of those
who were their victims.
But there was still another class of obscure and
lowly patriots, whose fate, though still more melancholy
than that of all the others, has excited less sympathy
because it is less known. Hundreds, nay, thousands
of as hardy and devoted spirits as ever the love
of freedom animated and inspired, suffered long, and
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
died lingering deaths on board the hospital and prison-ships,
still remembered by a few of our aged citizens
as the abode of misery and despair. They perished,
unnoticed and unknown, amid insults, scoffings, and
privations of every kind. They died like dogs, and
like dogs they were buried. Their names have perished
with their bodies, and the monument erected to
commemorate their sufferings and devotion, has only
sufficed to record that a multitude of victims to the
cause of their country here mingle their bones together.
Let it not be supposed these remarks are made
with a view to revive, or strengthen, or perpetuate
national antipathies. They have a higher and a better
object; namely, to pay a homely tribute to lowly
worth and unrecorded patriotism; to show the price
which our fathers paid for liberty, and the obligation
which rests on all their posterity dearly to cherish
what was so dearly purchased.
The Hunter prison-ship, into whose bosom our hero
was consigned, was an old dismasted hulk, which some
that are yet living have not forgotten, and never will
forget. Dismantled, neglected, and decayed, she lay
on the water, a black and dismal object without; within,
the abode of anguish and despair. The story of
the miseries endured by our captured countrymen in
that wretched tabernacle of sorrow, will never be
thoroughly known; but enough is preserved by tradition,
and in the memory of a few gray-headed survivors,
to give some idea of the sufferings of those who
died. It will generally be found that the direction and
superintendence of prisoners of war falls to the lot, if
it is not sought by a class of men having no other
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
feeling to gratify but a sordid love of gain, or the indulgence
of a petty spirit of tyranny. Sometimes, perhaps,
a more humane and generous spirit may accept
the painful office with a view to alleviate the miseries
of war; but even on such occasions, it would seem
that the perpetual contemplation of human suffering,
instead of softening, gradually hardens the heart. Custom
at length reconciles them to what they see all day
long, and produces insensibility, if not an actual taste
for the banquet of human sorrows. There are men
who are known to be amateurs in the art of inflicting
pangs on their fellow-creatures, and others who enjoy
with incredible zest, the dying struggles of a condemned
malefactor. People of more tender and refined
feelings, are apt to shrink from stations in which
they might best administer to the miseries of others;
and hence, we frequently find that hospitals, jails, and
poor-houses, and most especially those belonging to
military establishments, are placed under the immediate
superintendence of those whose hearts are naturally
insensible to the contemplation of human suffering,
or whom long habit has hardened into viewing it
without pain or sympathy. When it becomes a daily
routine of duty to attend the sick or relieve the poor,
it is very likely to be performed like any other everyday
business. It would be unjust, therefore, to involve
a whole nation in one common censure, on account of
the harsh treatment inflicted on our countrymen in the
prison-ships at New York, were it not that the like
was generally experienced elsewhere, during the progress
of the struggle, until it was in some measure
checked by the threat of retaliation. The facts are
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
sanctioned by history, as well as living evidence; and
no one can give an adequate picture of the revolution
without dwelling strongly on the theme of domestic
calamity and private suffering.
The unfortunate subject of our story was consigned
to this receptacle of misery, debilitated by fever, and
depressed by bitter disappointment, and was placed
between decks among a crowd of squalid invalids,
whose condition was rendered desperate by the absence
of all the comforts necessary to their existence.
It was now summer, and the heat was equally intolerable
by day and by night; for if they had strength
to crawl on deck during the former, there being no
awning, they were exposed to the broiling sun; while,
during the latter, they were stifling below in crowds,
amid a pestilential atmosphere steaming from the
lungs of death. The uncaulked deck admitted the
rain to pour down upon them; the pumps were continually
going; the water they drank, when the extremity
of thirst drove them to it, was always stale,
filthy, and frequently full of animalculæ; and the allowance
of food scanty, as well as of bad quality.
Add to this, the attendants, the physician, and the
petty officers, were almost without exception insolent
and unfeeling.[2]
To this “Floating Hell,” as she was universally denominated
by the Americans, was John consigned, and
laid side by side with many a fellow-sufferer who
never rose again. They were crowded so close, that
there was scarcely room to turn round in his narrow
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straw bed; the heat was intense; the air absolutely
stunk of mortality, and nothing was heard but the
groans of the sick and dying. His feelings, quickened
by the feverish irritation of his pulse, and the pain in
his head, overpowered his firmness, and as he lay
down for the first time in this dreary abode, on the
evening of his arrival, he groaned in agony. The signal
was answered by a wretch, who lay beside him,
in a tone which he thought he had heard before. He
raised himself by a desperate effort, and gazed wildly
around, through the dim twilight of the floating
dungeon. Another groan, followed by inarticulate
murmurs, the product of a diseased fancy, succeeded.
It seemed the voice of his father. “I, too, am mad,”
thought John, as he recalled the time when the captain
had expired in his arms. A few moments again
elapsed, when the same voice exclaimed, in feeble accents,
“Will no one bring me water—water—water?
Oh! give me water!” It was, indeed, the voice of his
father. The young man sprung on his elbow, placed
his face close to that of the poor sufferer, recognised
the pallid features, and casting himself down by his
side, sobbed aloud with mingled feelings of joy and
sorrow.
“My father! my dear father!” cried he, at length,
and clasped the withered, burning hand, that lay languid
and helpless by the side of the old man.
“Who calls me father? I have no children—no
friends here. I cannot even get a drop of water.”
“It is I—your son—come to die with you.”
The captain made an effort to rise, but it was all in
vain. He lay panting and feeble, a little while, and
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
then desired John to put his face close to his own, that
he might see if it was him. He complied, and the
poor father recognised his son by the light of a lamp
just brought in by one of the attendants. He put his
feeble arms about his neck, and welcomed him, not in
gladness, but bitter sorrow.
“You had better be in your grave, than here,” said
the old soldier; and his voice rambled away in disjointed
murmurs, indicating a mind shattered by pain
and suffering. Then again he cried out, “Water—
water! for God's sake, give me some water!”
None answered, and no water came. John essayed
to rise, but the moment he did so, his head turned, and
he sunk down again on his bed. He then repeated the
call for water, as loud as his weakness would permit,
and at length some was brought. The captain put
forth his hands with famished eagerness, and John
held it to his lips. It seemed to have been dipped
from some standing pool, but such was the thirst of
the poor old soldier, that he emptied the vessel at a
single draught. Then sinking down, he fell into a
doze, interrupted at intervals by low inarticulate
moanings.
It was now the hour when the convalescent patients
who had been permitted to roast themselves on deck
during the day, were driven down into the hold to pass
the night among the dying and the dead. This accession
to their numbers, added to the heat and impurity
of the confined air, created an atmosphere
divested of every wholesome principle of life. A night
ensued, the details of which would have no other purpose
than to convert pity into horror. The ravings of
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
delirium, mingled with the curses of despair, and the
taunts of unfeeling attendants, who, instead of alleviating
the anguish of the wretched prisoners by sympathy,
indulged in all the bitterness of political animosity.
Ever and anon, some spirit winged its flight
from this tabernacle of wo, and six dead bodies signalized
the triumph of death, that melancholy night.
The son passed a great portion of the time in watching
the father, who sometimes lay perfectly quiet for
an hour or two, and then again commenced his low,
disjointed moans and mutterings. Anxiety for the
sufferings of the captain, in a great measure conquered
all sense of his own, and he was sensible of
nothing but a raging thirst, increasing every moment.
A supply of water had been brought him, but so fætid
and filthy, that he found it impossible to swallow a
single drop. Thus realizing the tortures of Tantalus;
seeing nothing by the light of the dismal lamp, but a
melancholy array of suffering countrymen lying side
by side, and presenting a condensation of misery;
hearing nothing but the moanings of despair, the
screeches of madness, and the rattle in the throat of
death; borne down by weakness, and abandoned by
hope, John lingered out the almost endless night, until
towards the dawn, when nature gave way, and he
sunk into a disturbed sleep.
When he awoke, he felt himself somewhat relieved
of his pains, and found his father partly raised on his
elbow, gazing on him with a look of sorrowing
sympathy.
“You seem better this morning, sir,” said he.
“No, my son, I shall never be better. Who can
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
hope to get well in such a den of misery as this? No,
John, I shall soon add one more to the long list of martyrs
who have paid their last debt to their country
here. Would to God, I could have died somewhere in
the sight of the world, that those who come after me,
might have known that such a man once lived and
laboured in their cause. Here we die like dogs, are
buried like dogs, and forgotten as soon as dead. Such
is the reward of lowly men, when they pay with their
lives the price of liberty.”
“Father—dear father! do not despair. I hope and
trust you will yet see our people free and happy, and
to be known as one who aided with all his heart in
securing to them the blessing. Some day or other we
shall return home, and enjoy in peace what we have
earned in war, under our own vine and our own
fig-tree.”
“You may, perhaps, my son, but I never shall. Few
that enter this dismal hole, ever return alive. The
only journey they make is to yonder shore, where they
are thrown into a hole with curses on their heads, instead
of prayers, and lay and rot together. I shall
never see home again; never visit any but my last,
long home—whatever happens to my country, I shall
soon be free. In the grave I shall find both repose
and liberty.”
“Who talks of liberty here? Silence, you rebel
rascals!” exclaimed a rough voice, in a foreign accent.
It was the doctor, as he was called, though he disgraced
a profession than which none is more honourably
distinguished for humanity and gentleness. He
had come to take his morning rounds among the sick,
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
the dying, and the dead; and such another brute, in the
shape of man, perhaps never disgraced his Maker, or
his species. Ignorant and brutal, his only experience
was that acquired by a thousand professional murders.
Instead of sympathizing with the wretched victims to
the fate of war, he met their complaints with unfeeling
taunts, and answered every groan with oaths and
blasphemies. He had come from a distant land, and
was one of those sold by his sovereign, as a slave to
assist in riveting the chains of his fellow creatures in
another quarter of the globe. His practice accorded
with his mission. Some he despatched with pills; some
with blisters; some he bled to death; and some he
forced out of the world by rude attempts to make them
swallow his nostrums. In his nature he was harsh
and cruel, and his prejudices against the cause his
patients had espoused, co-operating with his natural
disposition, together with a long familiarity with such
scenes, had all combined to produce a total insensibility
to their sufferings, if not a more inhuman feeling
of actual enjoyment.
This degenerate professor of the healing art, in the
course of his rounds, expressed his satisfaction at finding
some half a dozen of his patients had, during the
night, rid him of the trouble of attending them. It
would be equally painful and disgusting to repeat his
unfeeling jests, and vulgar ribaldry, for there are degrees
of vice and inhumanity, the details of which
nothing but historical truth will justify; and, though
our sketches of these scenes are drawn from the relations
of those who actually saw and heard what we
relate, we are not writing a history, but a tale. At
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
length it came to the turn of John and his father to
undergo the torture of an examination. To the latter
he merely observed, “Ah! you will soon be out of your
misery, you rascally rebel;” to the former, he addressed
such consolation as might be expected from such a
comforter. He told him he could cure him, but it was
hardly worth while, for he would certainly be hanged
as soon as he recovered strength enough to mount the
gallows, unless he put on the red coat in earnest, as
he had done in jest, the other day. “What say you,”
added he, “will you enlist in the service of King
George, or stay here and die, like that old rebel scoundrel
by your side.”
The Yankee blood boiled in our hero's veins, as he
listened to this cruel speech; but for once in his life,
discretion come to his aid. He reflected on his utter
helplessness, and the folly of irritating this inhuman
dog in office, at whose mercy his father now lay. Accordingly
he gulped down a flood of glowing indignation,
that added ten-fold to his burning thirst, and
remained silent.
“What, stubborn, hey?” resumed the caitiff; “very
well, we shall soon break down your rebel spirit. I
have a way of doing these things, that never fails to
bring a recruit to King George, or send one to the
d—l. I only wish Davy Sproat, our superintendent,
was not such a sheep-hearted fellow. If he would
only give me fair play, I'd make quick work with such
fellows as you, and turn this into a recruiting, instead
of a hospital-ship.”
“Yes,” said the captain, in a feeble voice, “it is already
a recruiting ship for the armies of death.”
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
“So, so—you can talk, can you? I'll soon stop your
rebel mouth. Here—swallow these directly. Your
case is already desperate, and requires desperate
remedies. Very likely they'll finish you, but the sooner
you are out of the way the better.” Here he handed
the captain half a dozen pills, and insisted, with bitter
oaths, on his swallowing them.
“I will take no more of your drugs. Your work is
done already. Between you and the fever, I am little
better than a dead man. Let me die in peace.”
The unfeeling monster swore he should not die in
peace, and was about to force the patient to swallow
his pills, when John, forgetting all else but filial affection,
and suddenly invigorated by the feelings of a
son, started on his feet, and seizing the doctor by the
collar, sent him reeling to a respectable distance. The
wretch was a coward, as well as an oppressor, and
only vented his rage in threats and imprecations. He
brandished his gold-headed cane in defiance, called
John by every opprobrious name his knowledge of
English would permit, and finally made his exit swearing
he would accommodate him with a strait jacket.
The agitation of this scene, increased the fever and
weakness of the poor captain, who had now scarcely
strength to answer the inquiries of his son concerning
the particulars of his escape from that death, which
he was assured had taken place before he left him, on
the night of the adventure at Kingsbridge. In as few
words as possible, and with many intervals of breathless
weakness, the captain informed him that he had
only fainted from loss of blood, and was shortly afterwards
found in that state, by a party of British, which
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
had come out to remove the bodies of their companions
who had fallen in the skirmish. By them he was
taken to the guard-house, and recovering his senses,
was subsequently seized with a slow fever, during the
progress of which he was sent to the hospital-ship to
be cured. “They have succeeded,” said the captain,
dying away with the exhaustion of telling his story.
All that day John watched over his parent, who was
evidently hovering on the verge of that invisible line
which separates the world of flesh from the world of
spirits. Sometimes, after long intervals, he would
seem to rally, and at such times spoke a few words
consecrated to the past and the future. He enjoined
upon his son never to tell his parents the particulars
of his fate. They had already mourned his death, and
it would only be renewing their grief to be told that
he had as it were twice died. At another time, he
conjured him, while he watched over their declining
age, never to forget what he owed to his country and
the sacred cause of freedom.
Thus passed the day, and when evening came, it
brought the doctor's wonted visit, who, though he did
not venture within reach, stood shaking his cane, at
the same time informing John, “If it had not been for
the milk-and-water captain, he would have figured in
irons before now.” John heeded him not, for he was
watching the last moments of an only parent. The
captain was now in a deep, leaden sleep, such as, at
a crisis like this, either ends in death, or from which
he would probably only wake to take one last look at
the world ere he closed his eyes forever. He lay on
his back motionless, and apparently breathless, for the
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
sound of his breathing could not be heard. Ever and
anon, John placed his hand to his mouth, and felt the
almost imperceptible current of air exhaling its last
sighs, freighted with the departing spirit of the unfortunate
soldier.
Midnight came; the distant lamp shed a gloomy
and uncertain light athwart the abode of despair,
showing a long array of beds, that might aptly be
called graves, for death inhabited them. No sound of
life was heard, except the measured step of the sentinel
above, passing to and fro, and the panting breathings,
or low murmured moans of the tenants of the
dungeon below. At this moment, the dying captain
opened his eyes, and after gazing on John, at first
with a stare of vacant doubt, at length spoke his last
whisper.
“Your hand, John, and place your ear close to my
lips. May Heaven bless you, my parents, and my
country. I have served her faithfully, and now I die
for her. If I had only lived to see her free, I should
die happy and content. But she will be free, so sure
as there is a just God above. May that God receive
my—” His voice became suddenly arrested—he cast
one slow glance around—drew a long, quivering
breath—then another—and then his last. Such was
the end of the gallant old soldier, and such that of
many, many other noble spirits, whose fleshly tabernacles
mix with their parent earth, whose bones moulder
in goodly fellowship together, and whose names
now lay buried in oblivion on the shore of Long
Island.
eaf315v2.n2[2] See “The Prison-Ship,” by Philip Freneau, who was confined
in one of these vessels.
-- 051 --
CHAPTER IV.
A FUNERAL—A SUCCESSFUL PLAN OF ESCAPE—A NIGHT JOURNEY—
ROBBING A HEN-ROOST—OUR HERO COMMENCES A PERILOUS
VOYAGE, AND NARROWLY ESCAPES SHIPWRECK—A
LONG WALK, AT THE END OF WHICH JOHN FALLS ASLEEP,
AND THE GENTLE READER MAY FOLLOW HIS EXAMPLE IF HE
PLEASES.
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
John mourned over his father, though his sorrows
were assuaged by the thought, that he had gone from
a scene of hopeless suffering to receive the rewards
of an honest life and faithful services to his country.
But it cut him to the heart to see his honoured remains
carried the next morning, without shroud or coffin,
wrapped in the blanket on which he died, to be buried,
without a prayer for the repose of his soul. Not being,
however, permitted, and, indeed, altogether unable
from weakness to attend the ceremony, if that
may be so called which was done without any of the
usual accompaniments of Christian burial, he was
spared the pain of seeing his father interred more like
a beast of the field than a human being.
In the course of time, however, he began to think
of himself, his situation, and his future prospects.
Gradually, as he recovered from the effects of his
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
wound and fall, by the force of a most excellent constitution
and a self-supported mind, he adopted a settled
determination to escape from this den of misery
the moment an opportunity offered, however desperate.
Being now permitted to go on deck during the
day, and obliged to take his turn at the pumps, which
were perpetually going to keep the hulk from sinking,
he found great relief from inhaling the breeze from
the salt water, and regained his vigour surprisingly.
Still, as during the mid-day heats, he sat, or stood at
the pumps, panting and sweltering in the burning sun,
without awning or protection of any kind, and looked
at the green meadows and waving groves, that seemed
almost within reach of his hand, his heart throbbed
with indescribable yearnings to taste their refreshing
coolness, and lay himself down in their shade.
The deck of the Hunter was guarded during the
day by vigilant sentinels, and at sunset the prisoners
were all ordered below. Night was the only period
that seemed to afford any chance of escape, and a few
days observation convinced him even this was a forlorn
hope. The passage leading to the upper deck
was strictly guarded, and the old port-holes secured
by strong iron bars. The result was a conviction that
if he escaped at all, it must be from the upper deck,
and to do this in the daytime seemed all but impracticable.
True, he was an excellent swimmer; but
unless he could get out of gunshot before he was discovered,
the chances were a hundred to one that he
would be killed by the sentinels, or overtaken by the
boats before he reached the land. Night, therefore,
was indispensable to his plan, but unless permitted to
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
remain on deck after dark, he saw little prospect of
carrying it into execution.
Still he cherished the design, and at length adopted
a course which seemed to present a faint hope of ultimate
success, if adroitly and patiently pursued. He
began to distinguish himself at the pumps, by not only
labouring with hearty willingness, but by taking the
turn of some of the sailors. He was always in a
good humour, jesting with his fellow-labourers, and
conciliating the sentinels and petty officers by humourous
stories or merry songs. Gradually, he established
something like that good fellowship which admits a
free interchange of sentiment and opinion. This
brought him to the point he wished.
He began to talk slightingly and sneeringly of his
countrymen, and their cause, though it cut him to the
heart to do so; adopted the phrase of rebels in speaking
of them; affected to sympathise with his new associates,
in exultation at the hardships they suffered,
and every day gratified them by drawing extravagant
caricatures of the rags, distress, cowardice, and disaffection
of the soldiers of freedom. In speaking of
their general, he always called him Mr. Washington,
and sometimes almost choked himself by naming the
rebel congress.
His next step was to insinuate something like a
willingness to change his colours, and serve under the
banner of old England. He was tired, he said, of
fighting for shadows, and receiving nothing but continental
money for his reward. He affected to be
convinced not only of the badness, but hopelessness
of the cause, to the support of which he had been
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
seduced by the precepts and example of his father; and
finally consulted one of the sentinels, with whom he
was most confidential, on the probability of being permitted
to serve his Majesty, George the Third. By
degrees he began to be viewed as a convert to loyalty,
and by a course of judicious experiments, every
day acquired new confidence, as well as additional
freedom of action.
On one occasion, he made a trifling bet that he
would jump over the barricades, and swim around the
Hunter in so many minutes, which he performed, to the
great admiration of the spectators, and without any
attempt to take advantage of the freedom thus permitted.
This, and similar incidents, not only contributed
to an increase of confidence, and a consequent
relaxation of vigilance in the sentinels, but created a
friendly and social feeling on their part, that greatly
aided his final effort. He now began to be considered
more in the light of a messmate, than a prisoner, and
was permitted to remain on deck of evenings, after
his companions had been ordered below, that he might
amuse the sailors and petty officers with stories about
the cowardly Yankees.
This was what he had long been labouring to bring
about. The crisis to which he so anxiously looked
forward, had at length come, and he resolved to avail
himself of it without delay. Accordingly, one calm
evening, having been more than commonly severe
and sarcastic on his countrymen, and actually persuaded
the corporal of the guard to propose him as a
recruit to the regiment of loyal Americans the next
day, he set them all in a roar of laughter by a
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
description of the manner in which a party of the rebels to
which he belonged, had run away on a certain occasion.
They insisted he should give them a specimen
of the figure and gait of the Yankee captain, who he
stated was lame of one leg, and limped in the most
ridiculous style. At first he affected to demur, on the
score of its impossibility; but being pressed on the
subject, rose from his seat, bent himself almost double,
and shuffling off in a gait which was applauded by
bursts of laughter, made one leap over the stern of
the vessel plump into the river.
The moon shone bright as day, and the hulk, owing
to the turning of the tide, lay athwart the river, her
stern towards Long Island. The distance was not
great, and his hopes were sanguine that he might
reach the shore before a boat could be got ready to
intercept his escape. Accordingly, he bent his sinewy
limbs to his purpose, and, without pausing to look
back, swam towards the land, while the shouts of approbation
at his successful personification of the lame
Yankee captain, still rang in his ears. In a short time,
however, the merry party began to inquire what had
become of him, and his friend, the corporal, going aft,
climbed up the barricades to take an observation.
The bright, glassy stillness of the waters, soon enabled
him to discern our hero swimming with all his might
towards the shore, and at once the whole truth burst
upon him.
Levelling his piece, he discharged a bullet, which
whizzed past John's ears, and skipped over the surface
before him. The report of the gun roused all hands;
a fire was commenced that made his situation very
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
critical, and a boat got ready with as little delay as
possible, which started in pursuit of him. He could
soon near the dashing of the oars; and the approach
of his pursuers was announced by the sounds becoming
every moment more distinct. Those who were not
rowing, from time to time discharged their pieces, and
the leaping and whistling of the balls told him they
were within gunshot. He redoubled his efforts; he
strained every nerve, and reanimated his remaining
strength by the thought of the prize for which he
was contending, and the forfeit to be paid for losing
it. He could now distinctly hear the threats and maledictions
of his pursuers, and occasionally tried to feel
the bottom. But no bottom was to be found, and once
more he tasked his vigour for a last effort. The boat
now gained rapidly upon him; his limbs began to stiffen;
his heart almost burst with the violence of his
exertions, as well as the excess of his emotions, and
once more he felt for the ground. He determined to
let himself sink to the bottom, though ever so deep,
rather than be carried back to the floating hell, from
which he had just escaped. This time his feet touched
the ground, leaving his arms, head, and shoulders above
the water, and fortunately, the shore being very bold, a
few steps brought him to the beach, so exhausted that he
could barely stand. It was no time, however, for rest,
and rallying the last remnant of his strength, he cried
out to the party in the boat, “Good night, friends! what
do you think of the Yankee captain's retreat?” and
made the best of his way towards a wood, which he had
often contemplated with longing eyes, from the broiling
deck of the Hunter. His farewell was answered
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
by a volley, which he luckily escaped, and he proceeded
onwards, for some time distinguishing the voices
of his pursuers behind him. At length reaching the
wood, he sought its recesses, and soon losing the sound
of their voices, sat himself down to reflect on his future
course of proceeding. It cost him but little time to
decide on making the best of his way until he came
opposite the mainland beyond Harlem river, and there,
if possible, pass over into Westchester county, either
by the aid of some fisherman along shore, or by seizing
a boat, should there be no other alternative.
Should this resource fail him, he had nothing left for
it but to hide himself, until an opportunity of crossing
presented itself, or boldly attempting to swim over;
for he was aware that he would be hotly pursued next
day. It was, therefore, of the last importance that
the mainland should be gained before, or at least by
daylight, and soon as he was sufficiently recovered,
and had settled his plan of operations, he set forth on
his journey.
He retained some recollection of the country, into
which he had occasionally rambled in his school-boy
days, and found his way with tolerable accuracy a distance
of some miles, when he made the discovery that
he was both hungry and weary—so weary, that he now
for the first time became sensible that he had not yet
entirely recovered the effects of his previous adventures
and sufferings. He was now passing an old
Dutch mansion, and though for the honour of our hero,
we would fain bury the transaction in eternal oblivion,
yet, does a scrupulous regard to that veracity becoming
every writer of romance, impel us to the con
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
fession, that on this occasion, either hunger, or some
unknown diabolical influence, prompted our hero to
the enormity of robbing a hen-roost; but justice imperatively
requires that he should be acquitted of the
grand larceny of carrying off the hens. He poached
a few of the eggs to assist him in recovering his wind,
they being, as is well known, a sovereign specific, and
withal a very rare article at that time, either because
the rebel pullets had come to “a strike,” or been nearly
exterminated by the determined valour of the invincible
red coats.
Though John was not, perhaps, wise enough to teach
his grandmother to suck eggs, he nevertheless well
knew their renovating qualities, and cautiously entering
the premises under sanction of the great law of
necessity, was groping about to find the sanctum sanctorum
of Dame Partlet, when the dead silence around
was suddenly disturbed by the significant cackle of a
wakeful old rooster, who, it is presumed, was deputed
to mount guard in those perilous times. This signal
roused the old lady, who was nestling at his elbow,
and who answered by a few notes of interrogation, as
much as to say “what is the matter, my dear?” The
inquiry aroused the next neighbour on the other side;
the question was rapidly repeated from one to another,
and in a few moments the entire roost was in an uproar.
The cocks screamed; the hens cackled; the
ducks quacked, and threw up their eyes appealing to
heaven for protection; an old Chinese gander, with a
voice like the filing of a handsaw, sent forth a note
that would have done credit to the Italian Opera, and
was answered by a whole generation of curs, whose
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
music roused a donkey, and incited him to join in the
concert. Finally, the old patriarch of the whole tribe,
Squire Van Dozer, who never before was known to
open his peepers before daylight in the morning, did
incontinently awake, and shoving up the window,
poked forth a long duck gun, with which he might
peradventure have done some mischief, had not fate
decreed that it should flash in the pan. These accumulated
warnings admonished our hero to cut a stick,
and make tracks; and according to custom on such occasions,
he decamped without beat of drum, carrying
with him three eggs, for which, in common courtesy,
we think posterity should forgive him, seeing that one
of them turned out no better than it should be. All
this consumed but a few minutes, and feeling himself
wonderfully refreshed by his stolen eggs—which, like
stolen kisses, are doubtless the sweetest—he continued
his route, without further incident or adventure, until
he passed the famous Helle Gatte, where so many gallant
apprentices, and doughty school-boys of the good
city of mud, dust, and brickbats, have run such imminent
risk of being utterly shipwrecked on the Hog's
Back, the foaming Gridiron, and the Boiling Pot.
Being now near the spot where he contemplated
crossing the East River into the county of Westchester,
he skirted the beach, in hopes of finding a boat, which,
not content with robbing the hen-roost, he was resolved
to make free with, if necessary, without leave of the
owner. For a while his search proved fruitless, but
at length he had the good fortune to discover a little,
light skiff, pulled up among the high salt grass, and
half filled with water. There was a single paddle
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floating about in her, and it was doubtful whether,
with this alone, he could manage to pilot his vessel
across the strait, where the current is not only strong,
but abounding in eddies. But there was no time to
stand upon trifles, for the cool breeze which had succeeded
the dead calm of the night, and the diminished
lustre of the stars, admonished him the day was at
hand. Stepping into the crazy craft, and pushing
off, he brandished his paddle with might and main,
making at first quite a reasonable progress, considering
his boat was half full of water. But of all the
rivers, inlets, straits, arms, bays or whirlpools on record,
not excepting Charybdis and the Maelstrom, the East
River, in this vicinity, is the most capricious and perplexing.
The tide runs to every point of the compass,
invisible to all eyes but those of the experienced pilot,
and none can tell which way they are going, except
by looking at the shores, and seeing them run away
at the rate of ten miles an hour. It is the very pandemonium
of waters; and, were this the age of any
fables but those called emphatically humbugs, there
would doubtless be as many water-fiends connected
with this strait, as are to be found in the famous Hartz
Mountains.
In despite of all his efforts, he was at length sucked
into the eddies of the Boiling Pot, whence, after whirling
about at random, he was consigned to the martyrdom
of the Gridiron, and finally into the FryingPan,
where his frail barque continued to revolve in an
endless circle. Never was man so bedeviled and
bamboozled by eddies and currents, and counter-currents;
and such became his perplexity and vexation,
-- 061 --
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that more than once he was sorely tempted to throw
himself overboard, and take the chance of sinking or
swimming. At length, however, by one of the caprices
of the water-sprites, his boat was shot precipitately
high and dry ashore, and he once again found himself
on the soil of Long Island just as the sun rose.
There was no staying here in safety, and tired as
he was, there was absolute necessity for renewed
efforts. Laying hold of the rope by which his skiff
had been fastened, he towed it along the shore with
great labour and difficulty, until he believed her beyond
the insidious wiles of the diabolical strait. Then,
grown wiser by experience, he did what he ought to
have done before, namely, pulled the light skiff to the
land, and turning it over, discharged its cargo of
salt water. Again launching her on the waves, he
had the good fortune to reach the opposite shore in
safety, just as the proprietors of the boat discovered
the liberty he had taken with their property, and were
calling after him lustily, with many unseemly expletives,
not worth repeating. He did not think proper
to return their morning salutation, but fastened his
boat securely, and pointing to where she lay, bowed
his thanks, and made the best of his way towards home.
Preferring the byways to the highways, least he
might meet with some straggling parties of the enemy,
he took his course along the bank of the little river
Bronx, which flows through a retired part of the county,
among hills, woods, and valleys, without meeting with
any interruption. At length, finding himself excessively
fatigued, and somewhat hungry, withal, he determined
to seek refreshment and repose at an old,
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weather-beaten mansion, separated from the road he
was travelling, by a long lane of nearly a quarter of
a mile. It seemed retired and lonely, and he resolved
to cast himself on the charity of its inmates, whoever
they were. Approaching the house, he perceived a
female face reconnoitring him from a broken window,
and the sight of a woman seemed the signal of welcome.
Meeting her at the door, he stated his wants,
and after some little hesitation, she invited him in,
saying in a tone of languid indifference, she would
give him what she had.
This was indeed little, and homely enough; but the
hungry traveller is no epicure, and beggars should not
be choosers; so he ate his allowance with a good zest,
and thankful heart; while at intervals they talked of
the times, and other matters, until they seemed almost
like old friends. Each had paid a portion of the
price of liberty, for one had lost a husband, the other
a father, in the contest. At length he began to feel
the effects of his exertions, and want of rest the preceding
night, added to a fatiguing day's journey, for
it was now verging towards sunset. He asked permission
to lay down and rest himself, but she seemed
unwilling to grant his request, and on begging more
earnestly, shook her head, and replied:
“It is dangerous to sleep here. The Skinners and
tories sometimes pay me a visit, against my will, and
you know what sort of people they are.”
“I know,” said he, “the Skinners are the worst
and basest of all God's creatures, a disgrace to their
country, and a curse to this miserable district. Many
of the tories are not much better; but I have nothing
-- 063 --
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to lose but my life, and that I can defend against such
cowardly villains.”
After many entreaties, and much reluctance, she at
length consented that he should go and take his rest
in the barn, which stood at some distance from the
house. Here nestling himself in the new-made hay,
he dropped at once into a sleep, such as is seldom enjoyed
on beds of down. The reader is strenuously advised
to follow his example, that he may be better
prepared for what follows.
-- 064 --
CHAPTER V.
A RETURN TO OLD SCENES—OLD SQUIRE DAY, AND YOUNG
SQUIRE DAY—THE ART OF CHEAP LIVING—LABOUR-SAVING
INVENTIONS vs. LABOUR—A LIE DETECTED BY AN EYE—
A YOUNG WOMAN'S REASONS, AND AN OLD MAN'S CALCULATIONS—
THE COLONEL CONSIDERS CERTAIN MATTERS
DEEPLY, AND AS IS USUAL ON SUCH OCCASIONS, DECIDES
IN FAVOUR OF HIMSELF.
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
It is now a long time since we lost sight of Jane
Hammond, who was not a person to be neglected by
writers having the least pretensions to gallantry; first,
because she was a peerless little damsel; secondly,
because she had lost one lover; and thirdly, because
she had found another, which last is such a remarkable
circumstance, that it deserves to be specially explained
and developed.
The old continental, as already stated, had in his
visit to head-quarters, wherein, the reader doubtless
recollects, he carried Pine's bridge sword in hand, ascertained
that the story of our hero's desertion was
a sheer calumny. His not returning from the expedition
in which he wore that odious red wig, which
had given Jane such dissatisfaction, was long since
known to have been occasioned by having been surprised
and captured; but what had become of him
since, remained utterly unknown in the sequestered
-- 065 --
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spot, where dwelt those most interested in his fate.
The general impression was, that he had probably
perished under the hardships endured by those who
were stigmatised as rebel captives. But no one knew
this to a certainty, and the obscurity that hung over
his fate, served only to keep alive in the heart of his
mistress a keener anxiety, a more affecting remembrance.
Time, however, that hoary-headed benefactor
of the human race, who first soothes, and then
obliterates the keen pangs of sorrow; who, as he
passes through his never-ceasing round, covers the
rough traces of the past from our eyes, and at last
completes his benefactions by bringing us to the quiet
grave;—time gradually exercised his balmy influence
over the heart of Jane, who continued to grieve, but
did not despair; and, as if to aid in his pious endeavours,
a blooming youth appeared as an ally to the
wrinkled scytheman.
Old Squire Day, who is only known to the reader
as an obstinate blockhead, according to the repeated
declarations of the colonel, was gathered to his fathers,
not long after the disappearance of our hero. Obstinate
as he was, he could not hold out against the summons
of him who conquers all, and yielded the citadel
of life without argument, a thing he had never done
before. We cannot learn that he performed any act,
or decided any case in law or equity, which entitles
him to the remembrance of posterity, and shall therefore
refer our readers to his tomb-stone, on which the
great Zoroaster Fisk exhausted his imagination in celebrating
his virtues.
His death was not of the least consequence to anybody
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
except his nephew, namesake, and heir, young Squire
Day, as he was called, who immediately came from a
neighbouring town, the name of which, in imitation of
the sage Cid Hamet, we don't choose to remember, to
take possession of the estate. Artemas, as he was christened,
was in good time visited by the colonel, and returned
the visit promptly; here he saw our heroine,
and became suddenly smitten with a golden arrow,
not from the quiver of death, but Dan Cupid. In other
words, he entered into a calculation, the result of
which was, that the daughter and heiress of the richest
old codger in the township, would be a capital speculation
in time of war, when it was so difficult to make
money in an honest way. He therefore at once set
himself to work to make the agreeable, and succeeded
so eminently, that Jane could not endure the sight of
him ever afterwards.
When he departed, the colonel pronounced him a
puppy, and a blockhead to boot; while the daughter,
after many pros and cons, decided that she had no
opinion on the subject. He was sprucely dressed;
his manners were about half way between a clodhopper
and a dandy; his person was neither good, bad,
or indifferent; his complexion was as rosy as a milkmaid;
and the only legible word in the title-page of his
face, was selfishness, imprinted in large capitals.
There is no quality of the mind or heart that gives a
meaner expression to the countenance; and Jane,
though she had not seen enough of the world to institute
comparisons, had been in the habit of contemplating
a face where shone the most generous feelings,
the most frank and manly expression of courage,
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
sincerity, and honour. Besides this, it would seem,
for we have often seen it exemplified, that there is an
intuitive feeling in the mind of a sensible, high-souled
woman, which supplies the place of experience, and
at once detects the selfish hypocrite, who woos her for
her wealth, not her worth.
Thus, father and daughter agreed perfectly in opinion
on a subject which does not always produce such
unanimity; and we therefore record it as one of the
remarkable circumstances of the times that tried men's
souls. Artemas, however, soon repeated his visit, and
the opinions of both remained unchanged. Still he
continued his attentions, until it come to pass, that
scarcely a day dawned over their heads, in which he
failed to call, on some pretence or other. Sometimes
he brought Jane a bouquet of flowers; sometimes a
great, rosy-cheeked apple; and at others, a newspaper
from New York, for her father, which generally set
the old continental in a blaze of wrath, and caused
him to Thunder and Mars it prodigiously, when he
saw his countrymen called rebels, and General Washington
Mister. The colonel was, however, a passionate,
capricious gentleman; one of those old weathercocks,
that veer about with the slightest change of
wind; first, his self-love became by degrees conciliated
by the attentions of his neighbour; then he began to
think he had done him great injustice by calling him
a puppy, and blockhead to boot, and it became his
duty to make him amends; lastly, from becoming used
to see him, he began to feel the want of his company,
and consequently saw him with pleasure. The colonel
boasted to Jane that he had overcome a
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
prejudice; but the honest truth of the matter is, his self-love
had interfered to reverse the honest decision of
his judgment, in the first instance, which, in nine cases
out of ten, is the true one, because it is not purchased
by appeals to our vanity, or selfishness; but is, as it
were, an instinctive impulse that seldom deceives.
But the visits of Artemas had a directly opposite
effect on the daughter, who found him every day more
disagreeable. With that inspiration—for it can be
nothing less—which enables the most thoughtless and
inexperienced of the sex to detect the most latent indications,
the most cautious approaches of a suitor,
Jane had penetrated the motives of young Squire Day,
while the old continental tickled his vanity with the
idea that he himself was the sole attraction. There
seems a repelling, as well as attractive power in love.
It draws close to the object, if it be agreeable; while
the attachment of one who is disagreeable, only tends
to augment the antipathy. Such was the case with
Jane. She might have endured the society of Artemas
as a mere neighbour, or common acquaintance;
but the moment she detected him as an admirer, she
absolutely hated him. One reason, perhaps, was, he
continually boasted of his intimacy with British officers,
and was evidently infected with that inveterate
disease of petty minds, the colonial feeling of inferiority,
derived from long habit, and vulgar associations.
He never displayed the least spark of patriotism, nor
the slightest sympathy with the sufferings of his country.
Thus, while he lost ground with the young lady, he
gained ground with the old gentleman. He got the
blind side of him, for there is an instinct in selfishness
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
which, as it were, irresistibly impels it to study the
infirmities of our nature for the purpose of appropriating
them to its purposes. Artemas possessed this
instinct in great perfection, and soon discovered the
favourite hobbies of the colonel, which he assisted
him in mounting on all occasions. The story of old
Ti—the carrying of Pine's bridge sword in hand—the
value of his property, which Artemas always greatly
over-estimated, to the great satisfaction of the old
continental—and above all, the inexhaustible subject
of mole-traps, horizontal wheels, and perpendicular
axle-trees, was kept constantly alive by the ingenuity
of the young squire, who was ever forgetting or remembering
something apropos to the matter. At
length he overthrew the colonel horse and foot, and
gained his whole heart by suggesting a great improvement
in a fanning-mill, by which, he demonstrated,
the labour of at least twenty men would be superseded.
The good man determined forthwith to set
about constructing this superlative machine, and from
this time Artemas was lord of the ascendant.
But for all this, the waters did not always flow
smoothly. Artemas sometimes seriously annoyed the
colonel by his fopperies. He had dubbed his domicil
Dayspring House, in humble imitation of some of the
aristocratic lords of manors in the county, and roused
the rebellious feelings of the old continental by quoting
Sir Somebody this, and the Honourable Colonel
that, to show what great company he kept in the city,
where, he boasted, he had liberty to go in and out at
pleasure. On these occasions, the colonel would exclaim—
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
“Thunder and Mars! what business have you to
keep company with the enemies of your country, instead
of looking them in the face on the field of glory?
I begin to suspect you are a rank tory, for you seem
to think more of Sir Henry Clinton than Washington,
who is worth more than all the lords in England, and
the Lord Harry to boot.”
On the whole, however, Artemas gained ground
daily with the old gentleman, who cherished not the
most remote suspicion that his visits had any reference
to Jane. But he could make nothing of that pensive
damsel, who took every occasion to avoid his society;
and without absolutely insulting a man in whose company
her father took such pleasure, did all that could
be expected of a reasonable woman to let him see
that she heartily wished him with his favourite red
coats, in the city. The young squire soon discovered
his case was hopeless, unless he could bring parental
authority to his aid; but so far from being deterred
from pursuit by the difficulty of overtaking the game,
he only became more persevering in running it down.
That grovelling selfishness which was his ruling passion,
became only more eager and more determined by
the obstacles in the way of its gratification, and what
he had at first only coveted from avarice, he now
sought as a means of gratifying his revenge.
One day, having brought the colonel into a perfect
fool's paradise, by praising his system of rural economy,
as well as his wonderful ingenuity in the invention
of labour-saving machines, and wondering for the
hundredth time at the affair of old Ti, Artemas thought
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
he would break the ice a little so as to see the bottom
of the water.
“By the way, colonel, what a fine, handsome girl,
is your daughter. I should like to cultivate her acquaintance,
but am sorry to see the wish is not reciprocal.
She seems rather to shun me, I think.”
“Hem—Thun—” The old continental did not exactly
like this speech. He had flattered himself he was the
sole attraction that brought the young squire so often
to his house, and now, forsooth, it appeared he was
thinking of an ignorant young baggage who did not
comprehend the mystery of a mouse-trap. His vanity
was mortified, and he gave vent to his feelings in the
preceding fragments.
“I believe you have few neighbours, colonel,” continued
Artemas; “I don't recollect to have seen a
single young man since I came to reside here.”
“Very few—they are all gone to the army,” where
you ought to be, the colonel was about to add, but
checked himself for once in his life.
“I am told, sir, that the old people at the stone
house yonder, have a grandson, a dashing young fellow
in his way, but who has gone over to the royalists
not long since.”
“Thunder and Mars! who told you that, sir?”
“I beg your pardon, colonel, I did not hear, I saw it
with my own eyes the last time I was in the city.”
“You saw it? when—how—where? Take care
what you say, for if you speak truth I shall lose a son,
and perhaps a daughter.”
Artemas knew precisely the state of the case, and
proceeded accordingly. “I would not assert, if I had
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
not seen it with my own eyes. A tall, straight young
man, with blue eyes, chestnut hair, and a scar just
over his left eye.”
“Ah! that's he! The young rogue got that when
he cut down half a dozen rascally Yagers. Well, sir—
Thunder and Mars! why don't you go on? You
talk like a snail with his house on his back.”
“Well, colonel, a scar just over his left eye. Such
a young fellow I saw in British uniform, in company
with other British soldiers, and was told he had enlisted
in the corps of Loyal Americans, to escape being
hanged as a spy.”
“And his name?” asked the colonel, eagerly.
Artemas repeated the name of our hero, and the
frank, honest old continental was convinced. Instead,
however, of being sorry for poor Jane, he grew angry
with John, or rather impatient of the pain he himself
suffered under a conviction of his apostacy. He had,
by degrees, grown to have a sort of fatherly affection
for our hero, and looked forward to calling him son,
with something like pride, though it cannot be denied
that he sometimes wished him as rich as young Squire
Day. The sudden revulsion of his feelings carried all
before it, and he was proceeding to stamp about, firing
volleys of expletives against John, in a voice so exalted
as to attract the attention of Jane in the chamber
above, who came to inquire what was the matter.
“Matter!” roared the colonel, “matter enough, and
too much, too, for that matter. The young blockhead—
the puppy—the rascal—the traitor—the deserter!
I knew he hadn't the stuff to feel the gaff without putting
up his sneakers and cackling.”
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
“What mean you, father?” asked Jane.
“Mean? why—Thunder and Mars! I mean that
young rascal who has made fools of both of us. I
mean that puppy, John. Tell her all about it, squire,
that she may cast him into outer darkness.”
Artemas then commenced repeating his story, while
Jane fixed her eye upon him with a steady gaze of ineredulity
that penetrated the icy region of his mean,
malignant heart, causing him to pause and falter as
he proceeded. With all his efforts, he could not look
her in the face; and when the tale was done, he stood
like a convicted criminal before her. Without a word
of reply she left the room, with a glance of such withering
scorn, as would have annihilated any man not
cased in the invulnerable armour of dogged selfishness.
“Thunder and Mars! what does all this mean?”
cried the colonel. “I expected to see crying and all
that sort of thing. But so much the better. She is a
chip of the old block, and scorns a rascally traitor to
his country.”
“Ye—e—e—s,” replied Artemas, in a faint voice,
“she certainly don't care much about him;” and mounting
his horse, proceeded towards Dayspring in a state
of mind not to be envied, leaving the colonel more
puzzled than he ever was in his life before. His
daughter appeared the moment of his departure, and
placing her hand gently in his, asked—
“Father, do you believe that bad man?”
“Why—why—hem—yes, I do. There was truth in
his tongue.”
“No, father—there was falsehood on his tongue, in
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
his eye, and in his heart. I saw it there. Every word
he uttered was false. John may be dead—but—but—
he will never disgrace himself, or me. I will stake
my life, and all my hopes of happiness, on his love
and his patriotism.”
“Stake a fiddlestick! what can you know about
mankind in general, and this young puppy in particular?
You don't dream of the number of villains that
hide a false heart under a fair face.”
“True, father—my dreams are only the reflection of
my waking experience, which has taught me to trust
my father as I would myself, and John as I would my
father. I am sure neither of them will ever deceive
me, and if they should, I will not believe it, even on
the evidence of my own eyes and ears, for I should
think they deluded me.”
The testy old continental was touched by this declaration
of implicit faith, for he loved a compliment,
as dearly as he did his daughter. But it lost more
than half its unction by being coupled with one whom
he believed unworthy the association.
“Jane,” said he, kindly, “you are a good girl, but a
great fool, and take after your mother. What motive
could young Squire Day—who is a very different man
from that obstinate old blockhead, his uncle—have for
belying the rascal?”
This question caused great embarrassment, though
Jane could have answered it satisfactorily, had she
chosen. But a certain delicate, innate modesty, ever
the inmate of a pure, unadulterated heart, stood in the
way, and arrested her tongue. She remained silent
and confused.
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
“Answer me, Jane, what motive could he have?”
“I don't know—sir—but I think—I suspect—he don't
like John.”
“Not like him! why, he never saw him in his life,
except the other day in his red coat. What reason
can he possibly have for disliking him? Come, Thunder
and Mars! out with it!”
“Why, sir—because—because—”
“Because what? The deuce is in you, I believe.”
“Because—he—he—lives so close by us, sir.”
“Bravo!” cried the old continental, in a roar; “let
any man tell me after this, that women can't give a
good reason for anything. But seriously, Jane, I'm
afraid it is too true.”
“I don't believe a word of it, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Why, because—because, I won't believe it.”
“Good—another capital reason. One would suppose
you got them from a blackberry bush, they are
so plenty this morning.”
Jane burst into tears, and was leaving the room,
when the colonel called her back, and kissing her
affectionately, said in a more serious tone:
“Suppose he proves this in black and white, hey?
suppose he brings testimonials from New York, what
then?”
“I shall not believe them, father. The wretch who
does not shrink from telling falsehoods, will not stop
at forging proofs, or bribing witnesses, dear father!
For the last four or five years, I have seen John almost
every day. I have shared his thoughts—I have seen
his heart and his mind, a thousand times naked before
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
me, and if we cannot rely on such experiences, in the
name of heaven, what security can we have for human
virtue, or what reliance on kindred or friends?”
“Well—there is something in that. But I ask again,
what motive can Squire Day have for telling the tale,
if it were not true?”
“He—he—he—he,” stammered Jane.
“He—what? you little goose?”
“He wants to marry me himself;” and Jane ran out
of the room.
“Whew—w—w—Thunder and Mars! that alters
the case,” and the colonel fell into a deep cogitation,
during which he was sorely beset by the counteracting
influence of Ebony and Topaz. The demon of selfinterest,
which is so often found lagging at the heels
of old age, jogging its elbow, whispering in its ear,
and jingling his money bags, to drown the still, small
voice of conscience, now made a desperate assault on
the old continental. He opened an account current,
in which the balance preponderated mightily against
our hero, and in favour of his rival. In short, he began
to reason coolly on the subject; and, as we once heard a
generous, warm-hearted son of old Erin affirm, the moment
a man begins to reason on a subject in which
his own interest is concerned, ten to one, he becomes
more or less a scoundrel.
The course of the old continental's calculation ran
thus: John was poor, the squire rich, carry one in
favour of the squire; one was a ship richly laden, the
other not even in ballast, carry two; one was a prisoner,
perhaps a deserter, the other a squire of high
degree, carry three; one had no genius for inventions,
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
the other had taken out fourteen patents for labour-saving
machines, carry fourteen; one was a bird in
the hand, the other in the bush, carry two more; if
Jane married Artemas, she would marry a good estate;
if she married John, she would get nothing but a man,
and a farm in perspective, carry six more. On the
other hand, there was a contract of honour, but such
contracts have no force in law, and besides, John being
a deserter, as the colonel took for granted, on the
present occasion, had been the first to violate it. Then
there was the suffering of his daughter; but he passed
that aside, as mere moonshine, as a rational woman
would certainly in time learn to love her husband, provided
he was not a baboon or a bear. While he was
thus see-sawing on the line which separates right from
wrong, and is no bigger than a hair, the aforesaid demon,
that so often assumes the disguise of reason, impatient
at his indecision, gave him a great push, and
sent him at least sixteen yards beyond the dividing
line, whereat the good gentleman was exceedingly relieved,
inasmuch as the matter was now settled, and
the balance so clearly in favour of reason and Artemas,
that he resolutely determined to trouble himself
no further in stating the account.
-- 078 --
CHAPTER VI.
A COUPLE OF INGENIOUS COMPARISONS WHICH IT IS HOPED THE
READER WILL NOT PRONOUNCE ODIOUS—PROOFS THAT A
WOMAN CAN GIVE EXCELLENT REASONS WHEN NOT UNDER
COMPULSION—A VISIT, AND A DINNER—A YOUNG MAN OF
SAVING GRACE—HOW TO TRAVEL CHEAP—MISCHIEVOUS EFFECTS
OF MOLASSES AND WATER, COUPLED WITH A BAD
DINNER.
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
Colonel Hammond was a man of great ardour, but
little perseverance. His inclinations veered round like
a weathercock in a high wind, but never rested long
at one point of the compass. His resolutions might
be likened to a ball, which is precipitated from the
mouth of a gun at a prodigious rate, but soon becomes
spent, or, if it meets sufficient resistance, either glances
aside or rebounds, and rolls directly the other way.
The discharges of his passions, in truth resembled
those of a cannon, being accompanied by a great
noise and an immense cloud of smoke, one of which
soon dies away in echoes, becoming weaker at every
repetition, and the other is speedily dissipated by expansion.
He was therefore always in haste to put
his resolves in execution least he should change his
mind in the interim.
The moment of his decision in favour of the young
squire, was, therefore, that of communicating it to his
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daughter, who was (as writers of romance presume
to say of the women of other countries) actually struck
dumb at the annunciation. When she at length recovered
her speech, (for such unnatural paroxysms
seldom last long,) she ventured to remind her father
of his pledge to John, sanctioned by the word of honour
of an old continental, and that John was now
striving to fulfil his part of the contract. In reply, the
colonel urged the truth of the information received
from Squire Day, and Jane reiterated her conviction,
that he carried falsehood on his lips, in his eye, and
in his heart. The colonel maintained, that she knew
no more of what a man carried in his heart than the
old codger in the moon; and as to telling when he
spoke the truth, she might as well look for it at the
bottom of a well, or in Rivington's Royal Gazette.
The old gentleman scolded, and Jane wept. He commanded
her to marry Artemas Day, and she pleaded
her promise to John. He swore by Thunder and Mars
she should, and she passionately declared she could
not, which meant neither more nor less than that she
would not obey him, at least until satisfied beyond all
doubt that John had proved false to his country and
to her.
“If he has,” exclaimed she, with streaming eyes, and
proud desperation, “if he has, I care not who is my
husband. I will marry old Mingo, if my father commands
me.”
“That's a good girl—now kiss me, and let us be
friends.”
Jane complied with rather a bad grace, and less affection
than she had ever felt before. The colonel
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called for his horse, whose head he turned towards
Dayspring, and his daughter went forth to the margin
of the little river, where, in the midst of scenes associated
with many a tender recollection, many hours
of innocent happiness, she fancied she was striving to
discipline her heart into obedience to the will of her
father. But, strange as it may seem, the more she
strove, the more obstinate that heart became, and she
returned home, as she verily believed, out of all patience
with the sturdy little rebel.
Meanwhile, the colonel proceeded leisurely towards
the abode of the young squire, and as he passed along
by the side of his rich meadows, in which the lazy cattle
reposed among luxurious beds of fragrant clover, in
quiet abstraction chewing their cuds, or grazed kneedeep
in the redundant timothy-grass; or cast an approving
glance over the waving fields of golden grain,
unscathed by the tempest of war, (for the prudent
squire had a protection from the enemy,) he became
more than ever determined to sacrifice his daughter
to the golden calf in the wilderness. The two estates,
adjoining each other, seemed predestined to matrimony;
and the good gentleman had not the least
doubt that this marriage, at least, was made in heaven.
When he came into the presence of the thrifty young
sapling, his thoughts had resolved themselves into
something like the courtly speech of the nameless
king, in Puss in Boots: “It will be your own fault,
my lord marquis of Carabas, if you are not my sonin-law.”
Artemas shrunk into the dark precincts of his narrow
soul, when he saw the valiant old continental
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approaching, for his conscience whispered he was come
to question him more closely on the subject of the
apostacy of our hero. He, however, sleeked over his
face with an insidious smile of welcome, and poured
forth a profusion of civil speeches, such as the worthy
old gentleman loved in his heart, seeing that age is so
often neglected in this world, that nothing is more
grateful than a little exuberance of attention, even
when it lacks the salt of sincerity. Indeed, flattery is
scarcely less agreeable from its want of truth, since
it indirectly administers to our self-importance, by demonstrating
that we are thought worth the trouble of
deceiving. It administers at least to our pride, if not
to our vanity, and gratifies that petty self-consequence
which sticks like a burr to the skirts of insignificance.
“I am delighted beyond measure,” cried Artemas,
“at this friendly call. I hope you are come to dine
with me, though, I regret to say, my cook is seriously
indisposed, and you will have nothing but a cold cut.
But an honest welcome is the best sauce to a bad dinner,
and good wine needs no bush—though, I regret to
say, that having scruples on the subject of drinking, I
shall only be able to give you molasses and water,
mixed with a little vinegar, which is the most wholesome
beverage in the world. I have the finest spring
in the county at your service.”
This bill of fare did not much relish with the old
continental, who despised cold cuts, and more especially
molasses and water, from the bottom of his soul.
After a few wry faces, and recollecting the importance
of his mission, he acceded to the invitation, and recommending
his horse to the special care of his host,
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was ushered into the house with great ceremony by
the half-breed cockney.
“By the way, colonel,” said Artemas, after they were
seated, “if I recollect right, this is the anniversary of
the capture of old Ti, and I must insist on your going
through the whole siege after dinner.”
“Thunder and Mars!” thought the colonel, “but the
young squire is out in his chronology. He has got as
far from the anniversary as from Jericho to Jerusalem.
But so much the better; it proves that I have never
told him the story, or that he has forgot it entirely. It
will be quite new to him,” and the old soldier rubbed
his hands in ecstasy.
Previous to dinner, the young squire exhibited his
labour-saving inventions, all of which indicated a pettifogging,
parsimonious disposition, employed for selfish
purposes. All were contrivances for saving money
and labour; all originated in thrift, and each one superseded
the labour of human hands. One would do
as much threshing as half a dozen stout men; another
cut as much straw in an hour as a man could in
twenty-four; a third winnowed his grain at the saving
of a great expense of time; and a machine for
peeling apples was set forth as an invaluable expedient
of economy. The colonel was at once beset by
admiration and envy, for he could not but acknowledge
his inferiority in the art of saving labour, and starving
labourers. Following out consequences, he, at length,
after a long pause, suddenly exclaimed—
“Thunder and Mars! squire, there will be no use
for men at this rate. What is to become of all the
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poor labouring people, if you do everything by machinery,
hey?”
“They can employ themselves in making and tending
the machinery.”
“But this won't employ them all, or there would be
no use in machinery. What is to become of the rest
of them?”
“That is no business of mine, colonel. All I know,
is, that it puts money in my pocket; and my maxim is,
take care of number one. Charity begins at home.”
“Hum,” muttered the old continental, who did not
relish these sentiments any more than the cold cut and
the molasses and water; for, with all his Thunder and
Mars, he was at the bottom a kind-hearted man. He
valued wealth, because it administered to his pride,
rather than because he was avaricious; and could
not help observing that the inventions of the squire
were penny-saving contrivances, totally different from
his own magnanimous machines, which were all directed
against the inroads of various mischievous animals,
and had for their object the greatest good of the
greatest possible number of his fellow-creatures. He
began to feel certain decided symptoms of contempt
for his host, and determined to postpone his matrimonial
overtures for the present.
The dinner and conversation of the squire strengthened
the growing disgust of the colonel. The former
we will not particularize, least we should irretrievably
disgust the connoisseurs in French cookery, and shall
decline specification altogether, after merely hinting
that, on the host boasting that a slice of pork, to which
he helped his guest, once appertained to a swine that
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weighed upwards of eight hundred pounds, which he
had fattened in a manner, the particulars of which we
scorn to record, the colonel dropped his knife and fork
emphatically, eyed the young squire with peculiar hostility,
and with great difficulty refrained from blazing
out Thunder and Mars. Meanwhile, the molasses and
water circulated briskly, and it seemed that the more
resolutely the guest declined tasting, the more keenly
it was relished by the host, who appeared actually inspired
by the exhilirating beverage.
He became garrulous and communicative; told
story after story, illustrating the triumph of meanness
and cunning over simplicity and inexperience; and
every moment waxed more vain of what would have
caused a blush of shame on the cheek of an honest
man, much more of a gentleman. Finally, as the
climax of his triumphs, he boasted that he had several
times travelled from his house to the city, and back
again, a distance of some sixty miles, without expending
a penny. “I filled my pockets with dried apples,”
said he, “and whenever I felt a little hungry swallowed
a piece or two, and then took a good drink of
water. You know, dried apples when wet swell out
enormously, and I did not require anything else for
that day.”
“And your horse—did he feed on dried apples,
too?”
“Oh! as for him, I have taught the creature to take
care of himself. In the first place, he can travel a
whole day without eating or drinking; and in the
second place, I have only to turn him loose in the road,
and if there is a good pasture in a mile round, he will
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find his way there, I'll warrant you. He can pull
down bars, or open a gate equal to any man in the
county.”
During the whole of this conversation, the colonel
had discovered increasing symptoms of uneasy impatience.
At every new display of the narrow, sordid,
and dishonest mind of the young squire, he pushed
his chair farther and farther from the table; and when
Artemas concluded the eulogium on his horse, the triumph
of his eloquence was complete. The old continental
gave the chair one last decisive push, and
rising abruptly from his seat, with an alacrity that
seemed incompatible with his lame leg, made for the
door without ceremony.
“What's your hurry, colonel? Won't you stay and
drink tea?” said the squire.
“I have sworn never to drink tea until the British
government gives up the right of taxing it,” said the
old continental, proudly.
“Well, won't you take a glass of buttermilk?”
“Hum—”
The colonel made him a profound bow, muttered
something about returning his visit, dried apples, molasses
and water, and buttermilk; and calling for his
horse, rode home in a tempest of overwhelming disgust,
which was increased, if possible, fourfold, when
old Mingo pronounced it as his decided opinion, the
colonel's horse had not had a mouthful to eat since
morning, seeing he had debased himself by nibbling
at the short grass in the court-yard.
Jane received her father with fear and trembling,
for she had suspected the purport of his visit. It was
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proper, however, to say something; and she at length
ventured to inquire where he had been, adding dinner
was waiting, but that she presumed he had dined.
“Yes,” said he, “on fat pork, washed down by molasses
and water.”
“Why, where could you have been, sir?”
“At young Squire Day's, who is ten times worse
than that obstinate old blockhead, his father. The
confounded skinflint! Jane, you shall never marry
that mean, miserable, miserly, penny-saving machine—
that molasses and water drinking trickster! I never
knew a man with the soul of a half-starved caterpillar,
contaminate his stomach with such stuff. Thunder
and Mars! I say you shan't marry him!”
“I don't wish to marry him, father.”
“Why, Jane, he'd starve you to death; he'd feed
you on dried apples; he'd convert you into a labour-saving
machine, and all his calculations would be,
how he could squeeze most money out of you. Damme,
Jane, if I don't believe he'd cheat himself out of his
own money, if he could find no one else to take in.
There is no use in talking, I tell you, Jane. You
shan't marry him, and there is an end of the whole
matter.”
“But, dear father, you forget; it was you that insisted
on my having him. I'm sure I'd as soon marry
old Mingo.”
“Eh! oh! ah!” quoth the colonel. “Yes, now I recollect—
John—oh! aye! Well, Jane, I never will
believe that a fellow who eats dried apples raw, cheats
his neighbours, starves his work-people and his horse,
and drinks nothing but molasses and water, can tell
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the truth if he tries ever so hard. I am sure John is
after all an honest lad, and you may love him as much
as you please.”
“Thank you, dear, dear father!” cried Jane, and she
kissed the old continental just as if he had been somebody
that shall be nameless.
-- 088 --
CHAPTER VII.
A NAP SPOILED—SCENE IN A HAY-MOW—RUNNING A RACE
AGAINST ODDS—A GHOST STORY, AND A SPECTRAL FIGHT—
JOHN ESCAPES DEATH BY BEING NEARLY DROWNED—HIS
RETURN HOME, AND WHAT HE SAW THERE—HIS DISINTERESTED
SELF-DENIAL, AND WHAT HE GOT BY IT.
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
The place where John stopped to rest, was some
ten miles only from the abode of the old colonel; and
if by chance any of our readers should accuse him of
being a stupid, insensible block, for being able to sleep
within so short a distance from the object of his dearest
affections, after so long an absence, all we can say
in his behalf is, that he was debilitated by long confinement
and disease, that he had been up all the previous
night, and had walked all day without food or
rest. If these considerations do not secure his acquittal,
or, at least, greatly extenuate his offence, we must
leave him to settle the matter with Jane Hammond,
the first convenient opportunity. We know that persons
in love are said to be insensible to hunger, thirst,
and fatigue, but it is an absolute fact that man must
sleep sometimes, though it is considered rather common;
and, being common, must of course be rather a
vulgar business.
Be this as it may, however, our hero did not wake
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until long after darkness had enveloped the world in
her mantle of obscurity. Nor is it probable he would
have waked then, had he not been roused by the sound
of voices in the stable directly under him. From the
difference of tone and other peculiarities, he soon ascertained
that the party consisted of at least three or
four, and among them he was certain he recognised
the voice of his old enemy, Case Boshin. Recollecting
what the good woman of the house had told him
of the frequent visits of the Skinners, prudence, as
well as curiosity, impelled him to lay still and listen.
At first he heard nothing but ribald jokes, mingled
with loose profanity, and references to the outrages
they had already committed or had in contemplation;
but at length John was startled by a proposal that
they should all adjourn to the hay-mow, and take a
nap while the horses were feeding. This being carried,
John thought it high time to take care of himself,
as they were a desperate gang, and he could expect
nothing but death from Case, on the score of old
grievances. He had scarcely time to bury himself in
the hay, with his mouth close against a wide crack
which admitted the air, when the whole gang came
and sat down within half a yard of where he lay.
Here they began a consultation as to the propriety of
going to sleep, as was at first decided; the result of
which was, that they had better not, as they might oversleep
themselves, and be too late for some adventure
they had in view that night, but which they did not
explain at the time.
“It's a dry business to be waiting here without
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something so drink. I wish we had some of old Boshin's
cider to comfort us now,” said one.
“Well, Hanck, if we can't have the cider, suppose
we get Case to tell the story of cheating the old man
so famously when they were boys.”
“Agreed,” rejoined Hanck. “Come, Case, tell us
the story to pass away the time, while the horses are
resting themselves.”
Case then cleared his throat, and began as follows:
“You must know, boys, the old man was a peeler himself
at the spile, and betwixt him, and the old woman,
and us boys, the cider used commonly always to run
dry before Christmas; and as to buying any more, that
was out of the question, for we had no money, and nobody
would trust us. So the old man one time thought
he would trick us all out of our share, by putting a
lock on the cellar-door; and then he made a trap-door
right under his bed, thinking we couldn't get in day or
night unbeknown to him. Well, we boys one day laid
a plot to out-general him, and git into the cellar. We
were to wait till he began to snore, which he always
did like a northwester—for we didn't much mind the
old woman, who was plaguily sniffed at his contrivance
to cheat us out of our share—and then I was
to creep softly under the bed, lift up the trap-door, go
down into the cellar with the great pewter mug, and
hand up a mug of cider to each one in turn. Well,
as soon as the old man begun to snore, what did I do
but I creeps softly under the bed, lifts up the trap-door,
goes down into the cellar, helps myself to a mug
to make sure before the barrel gave out, and then begins
to hand out the boys' share. When I got pretty
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nigh through the job, I whispered the boys the cider
was jist out, when I'll be shot if the old man didn't
put out his arm all of a sudden, and laying hold of
the mug, swallowed every drop of it without fetching
a single breath, only saying, `It's my turn, now, boys.'
Then he laid down, and began to snore as if nothing
had happened, and we all concluded he must have
done it in his sleep, for he never said a word about it
afterwards.”
This story tickled the auditors so sensibly, that
Hanck threw himself backwards in an ecstasy of
laughter, and fell upon the spot where John lay ensconced
beneath his covert.
“I'm blasted,” exclaimed Hanck, “if I didn't feel
something hard right under me,” and hastily removed
from the spot.
“Pooh! it's nothing but one of the beams,” said
Case.
“I'll see that, pretty quick,” rejoined the other; and
seizing a pitchfork, thrust it into the hay with such
good-will that one of the prongs ran betwixt John's
fingers, which he spread out instinctively to defend
himself. He had, however, the self-possession to lay
perfectly quiet, and Hanck, satisfied with the experiment,
returned to his seat, observing, that it was now
time to set out on their expedition to the old stone
house, by which name the residence of our hero's
grandfather was known in that part of the country.
John now listened with breathless anxiety.
“Are you sure,” said Case, “that the coast is clear?”
“Yes, just as sure as I set here. There is no one in
the house but the old people, and a little gal; for you
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know the youngster is either dead, or a prisoner, or
deserter, and we have nothing to fear from him. The
old people can't defend themselves, nor the young
woman, neither; and if they make a rout, we can
soon stop their windpipes, I reckon.”
“I 'most wish,” replied Case, “the young chap was
there, too, for I owe him a grudge or two, and should
like to pay him off with interest. If I ever get a good
chance, if I don't make daylight shine through him,
I'm a nigger. Is that captive horse there, he got from
the Yagers?”
“Yes, I saw him feeding in the meadow in front of
the house, and by George he made my mouth water!
He's a clipper, I tell you!”
“Well, I dreamt last night, I was riding him to
church one Sunday. You two shall have all the rest
of the stock, and I'll take him for my share,” rejoined
Case.
“Yes,” said Hanck, “and I'll have a smack of the
pretty gal to boot.”
“No you won't,” cried another, “I speak for the first
taste; Case shall have the next, so, you see, you are
in Jack come last.”
“I'm blasted, if I do!” rejoined the other; and a
dispute commenced, during which, John listened with
feelings that may be easily imagined. He comprehended
the designs of these ruthless marauders, and
knew full well they were capable of any atrocity.
Like the savages of the wilds, they spared neither sex
nor age, and being beyond the reach of law, despised
all the restraints of conscience and humanity. Forgetting
his own situation, he gave vent to his agonized
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feelings in a suppressed groan, that instantly arrested
the ribald jesters, and smote their hearts with the terrors
of conscious guilt. A dead silence ensued, until
Case, the most reckless villain of the trio, at length
whispered to his comrades—
“Did you hear that?”
“Yes, that I did,” said Hanck; “it sounded for all
the world like the voice of a dead man.”
“Let's be off like a shot, for I heard it thunder a
great way off, and if it roars smartly the old folks
may cry out and welcome, nobody will hear them.”
“Nobody, but God!” cried John, in a hollow tone,
taking a hint from the dastard fears of these guilty
cowards, and following up the words by a long, deep
groan, which sent the trio tumbling over each other
out of the hay-mow in an ecstasy of fear. The moment
they were gone he left his concealment, and
seizing the pitchfork, after a brief consideration made
for the road across the fields with all the speed in his
power. The idea had occurred to him of cutting the
bridles and girths of the horses, but unluckily he had
no knife, and consequently he relinquished his purpose.
To turn the horses loose was a dangerous experiment,
as he could not tell but the party was lingering about
the place; so he wisely took to his heels in hopes of
reaching home before the villains arrived, in which
case he was confident he could manage them, and
with a resolution, if overtaken, to do his utmost to arrest
their diabolical purposes.
Fortunately for our hero, the affrighted Skinners
ran to the house, where they stopped to tell the good
woman what they had heard in the barn, and though
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she could easily have explained the mystery, she contented
herself with opening her eyes, lifting her hands,
and from time to time exclaiming, “Well, for the land's
sake!” and, “Who'd have thought it!” thereby clearly
demonstrating that a woman can keep a secret, at
least in the new world. Having, however, screwed
up their courage by means of a canteen of spirits,
which commodity is said to be a special antidote to
the fear of ghosts, the trio at length ventured to return
to the stable in a body, escorted by the landlady, with
a lantern made of a hollow pumpkin, where they saddled
their steeds in great trepidation, mounted, and
galloped away as fast as the increasing darkness would
permit. These delays gave John the start some miles,
and as the distance was not more than nine or ten to
the old stone house, his hopes revived with his progress.
The night had now become excessively dark,
owing to the approach of a thunder-storm, and he
could scarcely distinguish the road, except by occasional
flashes of vivid lightning, followed by low, muttering
thunder, at a distance. He durst not stop to
listen, for moments were too precious; but at times he
fancied he could hear the clattering of hoofs behind
him, and his mind became busily occupied in devising
a plan of defence, in the event of being overtaken. He
still carried his pitchfork, and felt assured that, by
choosing a favourable position, he could make good
his stand against the odds of three to one. This was
his only hope; for, save the ruins of a house that had
been burnt by the enemy, there was no traces of a
human habitation on this unfrequented by-road.
There was no help, except in the strength of his arm,
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
the firmness of his heart, and the blessing of heaven.
He had now, as he discovered by the aid of a flash
of lightning, arrived within a few yards of an old
bridge, which spanned a deep and rapid stream, that
by the labour of ages had worn its way through a
ledge of high rocks, covered with gloomy evergreens.
There was no passing the stream except over the
bridge, the rocks on either hand being high and precipitous;
and here, perceiving the enemy was now rapidly
approaching, he determined to make his last stand.
His first essay was to attempt pulling up some of the
planks of the bridge, but they were too strongly fastened
down to admit of this, and he resolved to resort to start-agem
against such fearful odds. It was a retired,
gloomy spot, such as where rustic chroniclers are wont
to locate their tales of superstitious terrors, and already
renowned in tradition for various unaccountable
appearances, especially at night, for which the most
approved soothsayers could not account on any rational
principles. One of the best authenticated, was that
of Mangham, the pedlar and tinker, and we shall give
it here as a sample of all the rest.
Mangham was a man of notorious veracity, and, on
returning from a trip to New York, with his knapsack
replenished by various articles suitable to the wants
and vanities of the rural populace, met with the following
extraordinary adventure: His pack was heavy,
the day hot, and he had frequent occasion to stop
by the way to quench his thirst with milk punch,
which was his favourite beverage. Night was coming
on apace, and fearing to halt for a lodging at any of
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the houses by the way-side, which were often infested
by Skinners, Yagers, and other banditti fry, which
roamed between the lines, he determined to push on
to the abode of Colonel Hammond. Here he always
found a welcome for his news, and he was sure of it
now, for he had some papers of pins, a supply of needles,
and other choice articles for Jane, purchased with
money furnished by the old continental, who had a bad
habit of paying beforehand.
Accordingly, he continued on his way far into the
night, and as near as he could guess arrived at the
bridge, soon to be illustrated by the exploits of our
hero, about the hour of eleven. Here, feeling himself
greatly fatigued, and withal very thirsty, he set down
his load, and proceeded to drink from the brook after
the primitive fashion, that is to say, laying himself
down at full length, and quaffing the current as it
murmured by. But what was his surprise (for he declared
he was not the least alarmed) to find that the
moment his lips touched the water, he was saluted
by a tweak of the nose that brought tears into his
eyes, while at the same time the brook, instead of
murmuring musically along as usual, grumbled out in
a hoarse voice, “What business have you to drink my
water?”
The pedlar was at first somewhat indignant at this
assault on his nose, which was a very goodly one, and
somewhat rosy at the extremity. At first he surmised
it might be a snapping-turtle, then a snake, and lastly
a lobster, that is, a fresh water lobster; but when he
heard the question, “What business have you to drink
my water?” he abandoned all these theories as
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[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
untenable. Though no great scholar, Mangham was by
birth a German, and as such, deeply imbued with the
legends of Number Nip and the Hartz Mountain. He
accordingly made up his mind at once that he was
taking an undue liberty with an Undine, or some
other pestilent damsel of the web-footed breed, and
leaving his untasted draught, retired to the spot where
he had deposited his merchandise at the corner of the
bridge.
He first thought of making the best of his way to
the mansion of the colonel; but he felt so tired, he
could not find in his heart to go any farther without
resting, and the murmurs of the brook created an irresistible
longing for a taste of its waters. In the
midst of this conflict, he fell asleep with his head on
his pack, and how long he remained thus he could not
exactly tell; but this he could swear to, he ever and
anon heard the words, “What business have you to
drink of my water?” ringing in his ears, accompanied
by a succession of tweaks at his nose that made his
eyes wink though he was fast asleep.
Every time the words were repeated, they became
louder and louder, and the tweaks waxed more emphatical,
until, at length, his nose was actually pulled
off, which caused him suddenly to awake in great
tribulation. The first object he recognised on opening
his eyes, was an extremely ugly old woman, whose
face, being illustrated by the beams of a full moon,
was marvellously imposing, as she held up his nose in
her hand with a look of diabolical triumph. She had
evidently just emerged from the stream, for the drops
trickled from her long, green locks, which sparkled
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like quicksilver in the beams of the moon. One of
these drops happening to fall on his hand, immediately
raised a blister, it was so hot, which made him conclude
the old woman came from a place which shall
be nameless, and was no better than she should be.
He was now, as he confessed, very much frightened,
and would have ran away had it not been for leaving
his nose behind.
“You drank my water,” at length screamed the old
woman, “without asking my leave, and I have taken
your nose in payment, though, ifegs, it's no great bargain,
for it's the ugliest piece of furniture I ever
seed.”
The old woman, it will be perceived, was no great
scholar. But however that may be, the pedlar became
somewhat wroth at this reflection on his nose,
of which he was excessively vain. Anger being the
father of valour, this attack on his proboscis caused
Mangham to feel somewhat pugnacious, or, as he used
to express it, “a little wolfish about the ears.” Instead
of apologizing for his offence, and then vindicating
his nose, he began at the wrong end—he put
the cart before the horse, and maintained that his nose
was as goodly a nose as any in the whole county, not
excepting her own. Finally, he pledged his veracity
that he had not tasted a single drop of water, and demanded
the restitution of his nose on the ground that
he had not got value received for it, and consequently
the whole transaction was illegal.
“Heigh for a fiddlestick's end!” exclaimed the Undine
old woman. “Here's a pretty kettle of fish
about one of the ugliest noses that ever disfigured
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`the human face divine,' as the poet says. It would
disgrace the snout of a pig. But I am a goddess of
few words, and always speak to the purpose. The
short and the long of the business is, that I must have
the rummaging of that pack of yours, and the privilege
of selecting such articles as I choose, without
paying for them, or I swear by my fins you shall go
without a handle to your face all the rest of your
life.”
Finding, after a succession of most humble appeals,
reinforced occasionally by various cunning devices to
overreach or intimidate the old woman, that it was
vain to appeal to her pity or her fears, and horrorstricken
at the idea of going home without his nose,
the poor pedlar at last assented to the terms of the
paction, and permitted her to rummage his pack at
discretion. The envious old creature selected all the
little articles purchased for Jane Hammond, with the
money furnished by the colonel, and having satisfied
herself fully, in order to show herself a woman of her
word, stuck the tinker's nose on again as fast as though
it had never been removed. Then wishing him joy on
its recovery, and sprinkling him with a few drops of
hot water which she shook from her green locks, she
wished him a pleasant journey, and told him to march
about his business without looking behind him, if he
knew when he was well off.
When Mangham arrived at the house of the colonel,
and in order to account for not bringing the articles
ordered for our heroine, related the preceding story,
the old continental laughed full two hours, and affirmed,
by Thunder and Mars, that never was so capital a
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nose so cheaply purchased. He forgave him his debt,
and poor Jane lamented nothing so much as the loss
of the needles and pins, which were worth about their
weight in gold at that time. Many people doubted
this rencontre with the Undine, but our own opinion
is, that this old lady was one of the nymphs celebrated
by the ancient poets, who, in the lapse of so many
centuries, had lost her beauty, forgot her grammar,
outlived her good manners, and expended all her integrity
in gaining an honest livelihood among Christians.
It was at this elfin spot, so memorable in the biography
of the tinker, that John had now determined
to make a stand against the Skinners, in defiance
of the old woman and the black fiddler, who had more
than once been seen playing there, accompanied by a
shaggy bear, who danced almost equal to Fanny Esler,
and a great, whiskered, bandy-legged turnspit, who
beat time with his tail with all the inimitable grace
of a leader of the band at an Italian opera. Armed
with his pitchfork, and equipped in his old white muslin
suit, a little the worse for wear, it must be confessed,
he stood at the front of the bridge waiting the
coming of the midnight ruffians, whom he could not
outrun. They gained the bridge almost the instant he
had taken his post; but the moment they distinguished
his dingy white figure through the gloom, predisposed
by the groans in the hay-mow, they suddenly halted,
wheeled about, and, with the exception of Case Boshin,
made a precipitate retrograde movement. Even
the redoubtable Case, after standing his ground a few
moments, his teeth chattering in his head, followed the
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example, exclaiming aloud at intervals, “Where are
you running to, blast your eyes?”
“Didn't you see it?” answered Hanck.
“See what, you sneaking ninny?”
“Why that there white thing standing on the bridge.”
“Pooh! 'twas nothing but the post.”
“The posts are as black as my hat. There! there!
I saw it by that flash of lightning as plain as I see
you,” persisted Hanck. “I'm for going back for my
part. We shall have a pelting shower soon, and I've
no notion of getting a wet jacket to-night.”
“If it storms, so much the better,” replied Case;
“there will be no scouting parties out, and the coast
will be clear. Come along, you cowardly fools; follow
me, I'm not afeard of Spooks.” Saying this, he
spurred his horse once more towards the bridge, and
the two others, ashamed of their fears, or afraid to
stay behind, unwillingly followed, for cowardice is felt
as a disgrace even among those who have lost all other
manly feelings.
John, who had noticed the retreat and divined its
cause, took a hint from their fears, and as they were
just on the point of planting their horses' hoofs on the
bridge, gave them a perfect fac-simile of the groan he
had uttered in the hay-mow. It was a groan so sonorous,
so sepulchral, and unearthly, that it startled the
very silent night, and roused the sleeping echoes of
the rocks around. It was too much for the nerves of
these midnight marauders, and, as if by one impulse,
they one and all scampered away the road they came
without once venturing to look behind them.
As, however, the distance increased, their courage
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again began to revive, and reflecting that there was
no other road by which they could accomplish their
design that night, they once more halted and sought
to disguise their fears by bantering and joking each
other, until, by degrees, they once more plucked up
the courage to advance. Our hero heard their approach,
though he could not yet see them in the pitchy
darkness, which increased every moment as the storm
began to howl at a distance. The first hoof planted
on the bridge, was the signal for springing forward
and darting his weapon in the direction whence the
sound proceeded. They were all advancing abreast,
and the only effect of this movement, was grazing the
skin of Hanck's horse, who suddenly reared and threw
him, but without any serious injury.
The storm having now passed off in another direction,
and the moon occasionally peeping out from behind
the clouds, afforded the combatants opportunities
of seeing each other at intervals. The Skinners, being
soon convinced it was no ghost they had to encounter,
but a thing of real flesh and blood, became
only more bold and ferocious in consequence. They
demanded, with oaths and threats, that he should let
them pass; but he made no reply, and continued to
stand on the defensive. Enraged at this interruption,
which so greatly impeded their meditated plan of robbery,
the party now dashed forward, and a furious contest
ensued. The weapon of our hero, being none of
the sharpest, and his thrusts often made at random,
while the moon passed behind a cloud, were sometimes
spent on the air, an anon glanced aside from
the tough skin of the horses; while the others, being
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only armed with broadswords, were cautious how they
approached him. In this way, the fight continued for
some time without either party sustaining any material
injury, when, as fortune chanced, or fate decreed,
the weight and violent action of the horses proved too
great for the crazy old bridge, one of the planks of
which suddenly gave way under him, and our hero,
falling through, remained for a brief moment supporting
himself by his arms. While in this situation, and
before he could recover himself, he received a blow on
the head from a broadsword, which inflicted a severe
wound, and so stunned him that he lost his hold, fell
through the opening, and was carried away by the
stream.
The marauders, now freed from their unknown antagonist,
proceeded forward with all speed on their
destination, leaving poor John “alone in his glory.”
Being prevented from sinking by the force of the current,
he was carried some hundred yards down the
stream, and finally deposited on a little point of land,
projecting outwards, and forming an eddy on the lower
side. Here he lay unconscious of his situation for
some time, his body floating, his head resting on the
sloping sand. By degrees, however, he at length, in
some measure, regained his recollection, and was able
to drag himself entirely out of the water, the coldness
of which had in a great measure staunched the bleeding
from his wound. Collecting his benumbed faculties,
he at length attempted to rise, but it was only
after repeated efforts that he succeeded, and when he
did, his head became so dizzy that he fell to the ground
again. Still, animated by the hope of saving his home
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from plunder, and its aged inmates from violence, perhaps
murder, he repeated his efforts, and at length
found himself able to walk feebly onwards.
Not knowing how long he had remained in a state
of insensibility, he was unable to judge whether it was
now possible to reach home in time to arrest the
scheme of plunder; but at all events he determined
to try, and regaining the bridge, he seized his trusty
weapon, and set forth with all the speed in his power.
But spite of all his efforts, his progress kept no pace
with his wishes or his exertions. He was often obliged
to stop and take breath, and his weakness at every
moment was augmented by the blood that now trickled
from his wound, while the bitter consciousness that
every moment of delay might enable the plunderers
to accomplish their purpose, distracted his mind and
enfeebled his body. Every instant he expected to
meet them on their return, and felt that in his present
condition he was entirely at their mercy.
He, however, proceeded onwards without encountering
that peril, until, just as the rising sun glanced
his golden beams athwart the dewy fields, he found
himself looking from a rising ground down into the
smiling vale where nestled his long lost home. He
saw the moss-covered roof of the old stone house,
standing in all its loneliness; but no smoke rose from
out the chimney-top, as was wont at that hour, and
the absence of this token of life and animation smote
like the cold hand of death on his heart. As he gazed
around on the fields, he saw neither cattle or sheep,
and the conviction rushed on his mind that he had
come too late. He approached the door of the once
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peaceful mansion with fearful anticipations, and found
it standing wide open. He looked in, and saw a sight
that thrilled his very soul with mingled anguish and
bitter revenge. The good old housewife was sitting,
with the head of the old man resting in her lap, while
his body lay extended on the floor, which was covered
with blood. A plaintive moaning announced that he
still lived, but the wife was silent as the grave. Her
pale, wrinkled face, was turned towards heaven, as if
appealing to its justice, or in humble resignation to
its decrees; her few gray hairs were without the accustomed
covering, and she neither complained or
wept. As John stood contemplating this scene of wo,
incapable of moving, and almost lifeless, she drew a
long, deep sigh, and at length murmured, as to herself,
these melancholy words—
“My son is dead, my husband is dead, and John will
never come home again. Why, O Father of mercy!
why can't I die too?”
In an instant John was on his knees by the side of
his grandfather.
“Mother!” cried he, for he remembered no other,
“mother, see! I am come home, never to leave you
alone again, so help me heaven!”
She looked at him wistfully, as if scarcely recognising
the speaker, or comprehending his speech, and
seeing the bloody gash in his head, murmured as to
herself—
“More murder—more murder—all but me can
die!”
John took her cold, withered hand, and wept over
it. There is a magic power in tears of heartfelt
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sympathy, that communicates with the hearts of others,
and awakens even despair to recollection. She looked
in his face a while, and by degrees recognised her
grandson.
“Oh! John! John! why did you leave us here all
alone? See what has come to us,” and she pointed to
the bleeding head in her lap. This recalled him to a
sense of the necessity of action, rather than the indulgence
of unavailing sorrow. He perceived the old
man was not dead, and lifting him tenderly in his
arms, placed his body on a bed, and, as well as he
could, bound up the wound. He looked round for
something else which might administer to his aid, but
the room was a scene of utter desolation. He saw no
means of comfort or revival to the aged victim, whose
low moans smote him to the heart, and with sudden
determination, addressed his grandmother—
“I will return in a few minutes,” said he, and took
his way towards the house of Colonel Hammond, fast
as his waning strength would permit. He soon reached
the spot, and knocking at the door with eager impatience,
it was opened by a sweet vision, that broke
upon him like a pale aurora out of the morning mists.
She screamed at the sight of the bloody spectre, and
was about to call her father, when a well-known voice
arrested her steps.
“Jane! dearest Jane! have you forgotten me?”
Jane did not, she could not reply, for her voice was
smothered in his bosom for some brief moments, after
which she raised her head, and as she scanned his pale
face and wretched attire, spotted with blood, asked
with a gush of tenderness—
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“Oh! tell me where you have been, and what has
happened to you?”
“Not now—I have other things to tell you, and must
not lose a moment.” He then briefly and hurriedly
related the incidents we have just described, and the
reason of his unceremonious intrusion, while Jane,
overpowered by the force of love and pity, wept once
more on his bosom.
“Thunder and Mars!” exclaimed the colonel, who
was just emerging from his dormitory, “What is all
this? Who are you, sir? and what are you about,
madam?”
“Father,” answered Jane, for it is the privilege of
the sex to speak first, “father, don't you know him?”
“Not I. Thun—my acquaintance is not so extensive
among such kinds of gentry, as yours, it seems.
But, hey! what! now I come to look—why, zounds!
if I don't believe it's that puppy, John! Give me your
hand, boy. I'm right glad to see you, especially as you
don't wear a red coat, I see. But where have you
been? what have you been doing? what brought you
here in such a trim? and—and—Thunder and Mars!
why don't you speak, you blockhead?”
John then made known his errand, and to do him
justice, the colonel sympathised deeply in his tale.
“But no use in talking,” cried he, “something must
be done at once. I know a little of flesh-wounds, myself,
and will order my horse and go with you. In the
meantime, we must send for Doctor Foster, who stops
bleeding with three leaves—and—and—what shall we
do, Jane?”
“If you will permit me, father,” answered Jane,
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blushing a little, “I will go over myself, at once, and
take such things as may be useful; you know I am
an excellent doctor, sir!”
“I know you are an excellent nurse, and that is
worth all the doctors in the land,” replied the colonel,
affectionately.
Jane proceeded to collect various articles, with
which, all women whose education has been properly
attended to, know so well how to administer to bodily
suffering, and while the colonel was waiting for his
horse, accompanied our hero on her errand of mercy.
During the whole of their walk, it is our solemn belief
they never once thought of themselves, except
just in passing through a little grove, whose wicked
twilight seduced them for a moment along a narrow
path, which shortened the distance materially, they
came so close together, that the young man could not
in good manners avoid pressing his companion to his
heart, and imprinting a kiss on her lips, for which, we
hope heaven and our female readers will forgive him.
On their arrival, they found the little maid, who had
been reared in the family and become a part of it,
having been frightened away at the first alarm of the
Skinners, was now returned, and had resumed her
household duties. With her assistance, everything
was done for the poor wounded old man that seemed
necessary, or was within their reach; the colonel arrived
soon after, and afforded the aid of his experience,
and Doctor Foster in good time made his appearance.
But as the wound had already ceased bleeding,
he found no opportunity of demonstrating the efficacy
of the magic leaves, and all he could do was to insist
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upon it, that, had he been called in time, he would
have stopped the blood to a dead certainty.
We will not tax the patience of the gentle reader,
by detailing the process by which the old man was
slowly rescued from the grave, by the gentle ministration
of Jane, the sage advice of the colonel, and the
providential absence of Doctor Foster, who was confined
to his house by an attack of inflammatory rheumatism.
The good patriarch was cured of his wound,
but never recovered from its effects. His mind was
irretrievably gone; and during the brief remaining
period of his life, his only occupation was rambling
about bareheaded, in storm and sunshine, picking up
chips and sticks, which he would bring in and lay on
the fire, muttering to himself, “Yes—yes—a tory is a
highway robber.”
The Skinners, it seems, had arrived about an hour
after midnight, and while two of them were collecting
the spoil out of doors, the third plundered the house
within, at the same time heaping insult and outrage
on the helpless old couple. Aged and decrepid as he
was, the good man possessed a portion of that spirit
which had descended to his son and grandson. He
could not resist, but reproached the robber as an enemy
to his country and his God; as a brute, who disgraced
the name of man; as a coward, possessing
only the courage to war on women, children, and old
age; as a midnight thief, who dared not fight either
for or against his countrymen in the face of day, and
lived by the plunder of pig-styes and hen-roosts. Irritated
by these cutting reproaches, Case Boshin, for
he it was, struck the old man across the head with his
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cutlass, and though he came short of murdering his
body, forever robbed him of the divinity of mind. The
wife never thoroughly recovered the shock of that terrible
night; the mouldering tenement had received a
rude jostle that shook it to the foundation, and it became
evident, that, as the ancient pair had travelled
the devious journey of life for more than threescore
years together, so in their deaths they would not be
long divided.
In this state of things, it was impossible for our
hero to think of resuming his military career, even had
he not bound himself by a promise not to leave home
for any length of time. Indeed, his personal labours
were now indispensable to the subsistence of the family.
The cattle had been stolen from the fields, and
the house rifled of all that was valuable. True, the
old continental generously offered to supply all that
was wanting, and more besides; but John at once almost
sternly rejected his kindness, and he went away
in high dudgeon, denouncing him as a purse-proud,
beggarly puppy. But Jane—the gentle, delicate, generous
Jane! John could not be offended with her,
when almost every day she brought or sent some little
comfort or convenience, not of sufficient value to load
him with the weight of obligation, but still enough to
call forth all his gratitude. Still, he continued rather
restive under this system of persevering benefits, and
more than once did the noble-hearted girl feel her
heart swell with mingled sorrow and indignation, under
a vague suspicion that he did not value her sufficiently
to permit her to become his benefactress. She
fancied, too, that he did not seek her as eagerly or as
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often as usual, nor welcome her with the warmth he
used to do, previous to his last long absence. Her
heart did not deceive her; for the sense of pecuniary
obligation is not favourable to love, which is a strictly
democratic principle, and thrives best in the generous
soil of equality.
One evening, when all immediate apprehension for
the life of his grandfather had subsided, John had
walked over to the colonel's, and was now for the first
time questioned as to the cause of his long absence.
He accordingly entered into a full detail of his adventures,
whereat the old continental uttered many a
“Thunder and Mars,” and his daughter, many an exclamation
of apprehension, wonder, and delight. It
would be utterly belying the heart of an old soldier
to deny that the story of his sufferings, his steadiness,
gallantry, and patriotism, did not greatly raise him in
the estimation of the colonel; and it would be a still
more atrocious slander of the heart of woman, to insinuate
that every hardship he endured, and every
danger he encountered, did not endear him still more
to the colonel's daughter.
“By the memory of the immortal Wolfe!” cried the
old soldier, when he had done, “By the memory of the
immortal Wolfe, but this beats the siege of old Ti!
Thunder and Mars! I've a great mind—hum—”
“To do what?” asked Jane, with a bright, speaking
eye.
“I've a great mind to give—hum—”
“To give what, father?”
“I've a great mind—yes, Thunder and Mars! I
will—hum—”
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“Will what, dear father?”
“Why, zounds! marry you to this puppy, as soon as
we can find a parson to do the job. Hey, John! what
say you to that, dummy, for you seem to have lost your
tongue in the last two minutes?”
John, as most of our readers will probably decide,
proved himself on this occasion a great blockhead, in
not jumping at this offer as eagerly as he did from the
stern of the old hospital-ship; and we frankly confess,
that when we came to this point in his history, we felt
a great inclination to discard him forever from our
good graces, and let him float quietly the rest of his
way to oblivion. Reflecting, however, a little more
deeply on the subject, it occurred to us, that, inasmuch
as a faultless hero was a monster, a perfect lusus
naturæ, on the whole we decided to finish his biography.
The truth is, he belonged to that strange,
perverse class of people, who feel a great deal more
pleasure in conferring than receiving benefits. In
fact, he was naturally excessively proud; and what
heightens the enormity of this fault, he had become
only the more so, since the distance between himself
and his mistress had been increased by the losses lately
sustained by his family, and the little obligations
conferred on them by Jane. He felt the weight of
his inferiority of position, and it had become a settled
principle in his mind, never to claim the promise of
the colonel until he had fulfilled the conditions on
which it was made. This is all we can allege in his
behalf, and with this explanation we resign him to the
mercy of the judicious and gentle reader.
Instead of accepting promptly, and expressing his
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thanks with all the eloquence of profound gratitude,
he muttered, and stammered, and coloured, and exhibited
a degree of embarrassment perfectly inexplicable
to the colonel and his daughter, one of whom eyed him
ferociously, the other with indignant amazement. At
length he managed to stammer—
“Colonel Hammond—I—I cannot express my gratitude.”
“Then hold your tongue, sir, or say something that
people in their senses can understand.”
“Nay, hear me, sir. You once told me I was a beggar,
and that the only daughter of Colonel Hammond
should never unite herself to a man without fortune
or reputation. I had neither one nor the other, then;
I have, if possible, less of either now. I promised
you, that if heaven spared me, and opportunity offered,
I would make myself worthy of Jane, and at that time
I thought I could keep my word. But my prospects
are now more gloomy than ever. The little property
I might have expected to inherit, is desolated, and what
is of yet more consequence, the situation of my grandparents
is such, that I cannot, I will not leave them
now, to seek my fortune in the service of my country.
No hope remains that I shall ever be able to fulfil my
part of the conditions, on which, alone, I can consent
to receive the greatest blessing of my life; and without
this, I have solemnly sworn never to claim the
hand of the only woman I ever loved, or can love. I
must fairly win her—I must feel that she does not sink
in the world when she becomes mine, or mine she will
never be, though I would move heaven and earth to
win her.”
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“And so, sir, you refuse my daughter, do you? Very
well—I say no more—there's the door. Do you understand?”
exclaimed the colonel, as he shuffled to the
door, and threw it wide open.
“When you come to reflect on my motives, sir—”
“Reflect! Thunder and Mars! what's the use of
reflecting, sir? The thing is perfectly plain. You
have rejected the only daughter of Colonel Hammond,
an old continental, and the richest man in the whole
township. I comprehend that perfectly, and as to your
motives, I don't care a straw about them. There's the
door, sir!” The colonel then bustled out of the room
in a fury, leaving our hero alone with Jane.
“Jane—dearest Jane! you, at least, understand me,
I hope?” said John.
Jane made no answer, but as she followed her father,
gave him one look which the young recreant remembered
for many a day. It was not precisely such
a look as she bestowed on Artemas Day, with which
she annihilated all his hopes at one blow, but a glance
of mingled reproach, wounded pride, and sorrowful
anger, such as, when it flashes from the eye of one
we love, cuts deep into the heart. Jane was a woman,
not quite an angel, and there are so many reasons
deeply mortifying to the sex, and dishonourable to man
for the course pursued by our hero on this occasion,
that we think Jane may be excused for ascribing to
want of true affection, what in reality proceeded from
the highest, purest sources of virtuous love. She was
wrong in this, and it remains to be seen whether she
will ever come right again.
John was actually confounded at the result of his
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magnanimous forbearance and self-denial. He remained
some time where he was, either from not exactly
knowing what to do with himself, or from a latent
hope that Jane would return. But she came no
more; and at length he slowly took his way towards
his disconsolate home, occupied by a strange medley
of feelings. He had, without doubt, from sheer ignorance
of the workings of that incomprehensible machine,
the human heart, flattered himself that his heroic
disinterestedness would have won the admiration
of his mistress, and the applause of her father; but
he had been turned, as it were, out of doors by the
colonel, and had received from Jane a look that spoke
volumes, not of approval, but reproach, and—he could
not tell what besides. He tried to persuade himself
he was an injured man, and such attempts are seldom
unsuccessful. This conviction is always a source of
great consolation, and accordingly as he proceeded on
his way, his chest gradually expanded, he held his
head higher, his step became more elastic, and his form
assumed additional dignity. In short, he had made
friends with himself, and the alliance sustained him
against the censure or disapproval of others.
Our heroine, in the meantime, had retired to her
chamber. She did not weep, for pride came to her
aid; and whatever severe moralists may say, “pride
oft keeps men, and women, too, from falling.” At first
her feelings partook more of indignation than of disappointed
hope, or wounded affection. She called to
mind all she had felt and suffered for the ungrateful
youth; how she had mourned his supposed delinquencies,
sympathised in his sufferings, wept over his
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captivity, scorned his calumniators, and strange to say,
these recollections, instead of hardening, softened her
heart. They brought her back into her wonted state
of feeling, and before pride could put in another word,
or was aware of the trick her heart was playing her,
the little bosom traitor gradually lured her back again
to her old accustomed love. Then, taking advantage
of this cessation of hostilities, he solemnly assured her
that this imaginary rejection, was the best possible
proof of the purity of her lover's passion. It demonstrated
his disinterestedness beyond a doubt; it showed
he loved her better than himself, and that he was capable
of every sacrifice, but that of her respectability
and happiness.
“What a fool I have been,” thought Jane, and burst
into a passion of tears. “It is all over now. He is as
proud as Lucifer—how I do hate proud men. He will
never come here again, unless he is sent for; he will
wait a long time before I send for him. But he is
poor; and after all, pride is the best safeguard of poverty,
and makes it respectable. I would not give much
for a man without pride, for my part. Oh! if I could
only see him once more, just to explain that look I
gave him—I wish I had been blind just then; but
he'll never come near me again, with that confounded
pride of his—and I, forsooth, am expected to make the
first advances—I'll be switched if I do—I'll see him in
Guinea first—I will never speak to him again, unless
he goes down on his knees, and begs my pardon for
rejecting me.” This single word, rejecting, grated so
harshly on her feelings, that it did John's business for
that time; and thus ended her soliloquy.
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The month of September now came round on the
ever-rolling wheels of time, and every one at the old
stone house being as well as could be expected, John
felt the weight of inaction every day more intolerable;
especially as the sight of the colonel's chimneys operated
as a perpetual incentive to activity and exertion,
by which alone he could hope to win his mistress with
honour to himself and her. He had solemnly covenanted
with himself to do this; and although most
people do not much mind breaking faith with that
worthy gentleman, John had too many motives for
keeping it, to admit of such delinquency. As he could
not join the army, for reasons already stated, all that
was left him was to make occasional excursions with
some of the young fellows of the neighbourhood, in the
hope of serving his country by intercepting straggling
plunderers, or giving information which might be useful
to the cause to which his whole soul was devoted.
One of these occasions led to an adventure which produced
a sudden change in his prospects, and demonstrated
that though chance may present opportunities
for acquiring distinction, they can only be appropriated
successfully by courage, integrity and patriotism.
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CHAPTER VIII.
SKETCH OF A SEPTEMBER MORNING—A GROUP OF STRANGERS
INTRODUCED—THE GAME-CHICKEN AND HER COMMANDER—
UTILITY OF MUSIC—A RIDE AND A DIALOGUE—QUAKERS
MILITANT—DIFFICULTY OF THREADING A NEEDLE.
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It was one morning just before the peep of dawn,
as the full moon was hovering over the high, precipitous
mountain that skirts the noble Hudson on the
western bank, between Tappan Bay and Haverstraw,
that a group of three persons was standing on the
beach, preparatory to embarking on the river. The
wide expanse of waters presented the aspect of a magnificent
lake, sleeping still and calm, awaiting the approaching
morn; the range of mountains to the north,
was decked with a white night-cap of mist, while the
banks of the river below, lay half hid, half revealed in
the obscurity of distance and night. The only object
visible on the wide expanse of waves, was a large
ship, whose dark hull, and lofty masts, were somewhat
indistinctly seen some miles below. All was silent
and motionless, save the group of living beings on the
beach, one of whom wore a blue surtout; the other,
the dress of a plain, country gentleman; and the third,
a pea-jacket, and tarpaulin hat, from under which
strayed a profusion of matted gray hairs, that seemed
not to have been fretted by comb or brush for many a
day.
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“Come, bear a hand, Arthur—there is no time to be
lost, for we must be back again before the cock crows,”
said the plain looking man.
“An't I making all the haste I can?” answered a
shrill, squeaking, querulous voice. “The Game-Chicken
is half full of water, and I am baling it out with
my hat.”
“Do you think she will carry us safely over?”
“What—the Game-Chicken? Why, darn my eyes,
sir, if I don't believe she'd swim with all the water of
the sea on board. If a man is ever drowned in her,
it will be because he was'nt born to be hanged, I reckon.
There, now, I'm ready.”
“Step in, Mr. Anderson,” said the plain gentleman,
politely.
“Mr. Anderson! Sir, my name is—”
“Anderson, sir,” interrupted the other, quickly.
“You forget,” added he, in a low voice.
“Yes, too true; there is no help for it, now,” said
the other, in the same low tone. “Why was I not returned
back to the ship as was promised?”
“Because she has changed her position during the
night. See, she is just visible in the moonlight; it
would be broad day before I could return, and how
should I be able to account for being there at all?”
“Why, then, return? Remain on board, and accompany
me to New York, where, I pledge my honour,
you shall be amply rewarded.”
“I thank you, major—Mr. Anderson, I should say,
but I leave too great a stake behind—my family and
my property.”
“Take your family with you, or send for them; they
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will not be detained, and as for your property amends
may easily be made for its loss.”
“No, faith! My wife and children shall never become
exiles for me. I must return, before it is known
I have been away, except by this half-witted sailor.”
“Aye,” replied the blue surtout, bitterly, “and play
the traitor to both sides, like some of your betters at
West Point.”
“Traitor and spy are boon companions all the world
over,” replied the other carelessly. “But come, sir, the
boat waits; and hark! the first cock crows. It will
be late before you reach Croton river. Once over
that, and you may whistle your way to New York in
safety.”
The party now entered the Game-Chicken, as Arthur
called his boat, and being pushed from the beach,
the pilot began to ply his pair of oars briskly, ever and
anon chaunting a stave of the following ditty, which
tradition has still preserved among some of the old
sky-larkers of the revolution, who were then boys living
between the lines—
“Yankee Doodle, he's half horse,
And tother, alligator,
He'll squash the red coats in his jaws,
Jist like a rotten tater.”
“Oh! for mercy's sake, Arthur, stop that ditty. It
sets my teeth on edge. Your voice is second only to
a screech-owl,” said the plain gentleman.
“Screech-owl, sir! Why, when I was aboard the
Bone Ham Richard, I was counted the best singer of
the whole mess. Besides, my oars won't keep time
together unless I set them to music—
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“Yankee Doodle, he's the boy,
The tories can't abide him,
He makes them run from Perth Amboy,
And the red coats close aside 'em.
“The red coats don't come here to fight,
They're all a pack of thieves, sir,
They rob our hen-roosts every night,
And not a pullet leaves, sir.”
At the end of each alternate line of the preceding
stanzas, Arthur signalized the word, sir, by jerking his
oars with sudden emphasis, and throwing himself
back, making the Game-Chicken spin through the
water merrily.
“But we'll be quits with them full soon,
Though they are all so frumptious,
We'll lick them tother side the moon,
For all they're so contumptious.”
“Stop that infernal stave, I tell you, Arthur, major—
Mr. Anderson wishes to take a nap, and can't sleep
with such a squeaking in his ears. Besides, he don't
like to hear the red coats run down,” again interrupted
the plain gentleman.
“No? why, that's strange! If Squire Anderson is
a good whig, as I conclude he is, or I'll be darned if
he should ever have set his foot aboard the Game-Chicken,
he'll like my song above all things—
“I heard a little bird to-day
A singing chip, chip, chip,
The Yankees will the red coats pay
And all their bullies whip, whip.
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“Huzza! for Washington and Greene,
Likewise Bloody Anthony,
Such glorious boys were never seen
To fight for liberty.
“Then here's to all Americans
Among the bold and free,
That fill their cups and toss their cans
Where I should like to be.
“Huzza! again for—”
Here the song was brought to an abrupt close, by
the Game-Chicken suddenly striking the shore, with a
shock that pitched Arthur backwards into the bottom
of the boat, with his heels uppermost.
“There's a hole in the ballad, Arthur,” said the plain
gentleman.
“N—ye—es,” drawled out Arthur, feeling as if for
something behind him, “and somewhere else, too, I
reckon. I didn't calculate we were half over the bay,
but somehow or other, the Game-Chicken sails like the
wind to the tune of Yankee Doodle.”
The two passengers now jumped on shore, leaving
the pea-jacket in charge of the Game-Chicken, and
ascended the bank, where they found a horse held by
a servant of the plain gentleman, who directed him to
go down to the boat and there wait his coming.
“Now, sir,” said he, addressing the person in the
blue surtout, “mount, and spur for life. Until you
have passed Croton river, you are in danger every moment.
Once on the other side, and you will be comparatively
safe, in your present disguise, and with a pass
in your pocket. But your life depends on escaping
detection.”
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“My life? I can at the worst be considered and
treated as a prisoner of war, and my life will be in no
danger, at least after I am taken.”
“Don't believe it, sir. You have been within the
rebel lines. You are travelling in disguise, and carry
about you what will assuredly hang you should you
be taken to the head-quarters of General Washington.”
“General Washington,” echoed the other, contemptuously,
“who made him a general? But I care not;
they can only consider me a prisoner of war, and
treat me as such. I should soon be exchanged.”
“Never, sir. You don't know this Mr. Washington,
as you call him. A court-martial will be convened,
if you are taken with the papers upon you, and you
will be hanged as sure as you are alive.”
“Hang me! the adjutant! the— He dare not do
it.”
“I tell you again, you don't know him. He will
dare anything authorized by the laws of war, for the
good of his cause and his country. I wish well to
neither, at least according to his creed; but this I will
say of him, that he is as firm as a rock when he believes
himself right, and in this case he will have right
on his side.”
“Right? I am no spy, sir.”
“Mr. Anderson,” said the other, firmly, “let me ask
you one simple question—did you, or did you not know
the business on which you were sent?”
“Was I a fool to be sent blindfold on an errand?
I did—what then?”
“Then, sir, I must be bold to tell you, frankly, you
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come as a spy—you performed the functions of a spy,
and will be treated accordingly if you fall into the
hands of the rebels in this disguise.”
“And who obliged me to disgrace myself thus? I
came in my uniform as a British officer, known and
recognised as such, and was thus received. That I
came within the enemy's lines was not my fault; that
the Vulture, in which I came, dropped down the river
to escape the fire of the rebels, was no business of
mine—and that I wear a disguise arises from necessity,
not choice. I a spy! I suffer the disgraceful death
of a felon! Pooh, sir! you are conjuring up bugbears
to frighten me.”
“Well—well—we will not dispute the point any
more. Too much time has been wasted already.
Farewell, and make all the speed you can, for again I
tell you, your life is involved in this perilous adventure.”
The conference ended here. The man in the blue
surtout turned his horse's head towards the south, the
other hastily returned to the boat, which immediately
pushed off for the opposite shore. The former pursued
his way briskly, and notwithstanding his previous declarations,
reflected keenly and deeply on the predicament
in which he was placed—partly by his own acts,
partly by the agency of others. Though possessed of a
pass from the commandant at West Point, which
would, in all probability, insure his release should he
be stopped on his way, still there was something in
the business he was upon, and the disguise he had assumed,
which not even the fanaticism of loyalty by
which he was actuated, could thoroughly reconcile to
the feelings of a man of honour, or the frank and manly
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spirit of a gallant soldier. The sun had risen before
he arrived at Croton river, at a point where there was
no bridge at that time, and which was crossed by a
ferry, kept, as before stated, by Farmer Underwood.
It was fordable at low water, but at this time the tide
was high, and a boat was necessary to pass over
travellers.
The farmer was busy at his morning avocations,
while his three lusty boys were as usual going through
their manual in the barn; Obadiah, with a rusty old
gun, acting as fugleman, while ever and anon the robustious
youth chaunted a stave of some old continental
song, redolent of more patriotism than poetry,
greatly to the annoyance of the non-combatant farmer.
“Why, sure, it can't be possible, Ruth,” said he to his
wife; “the boy is singing profane and warlike songs,
like unto a thunderbolt. And behold! why, son Obadiah,”
cried the old man, raising his voice, “what art
thee going to do with that carnal weapon?”
“Father,” replied the young man, approaching him,
“I hear our people are well nigh starving up yonder
in the Highlands. I do wish thee would send us there
with a load of flour, instead of down to Kingsbridge.”
“Yea, friend Obadiah, and get paid in continental
money, instead of golden guineas. Thee talks like a
foolish lad, friend Obadiah, of a truth, verily; go to.”
“I'll tell thee what, father, I heard such stories of the
Yagers, the red coats, the tories, and the Skinners
burning down houses and barns, and robbing and
abusing the women and children, whose fathers and
brothers are gone to the wars, that the spirit moves
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me to tell thee I am going to join the continental
army, as sure as this gun.”
“And so am I, father,” said Nehemiah, coming up.
“And so am I, father,” said Uriah, following.
“And so am I, father! the dev—I mean thee cannot
be in earnest, boys.”
“Right up and down earnest, father,” replied Obadiah.
“We've got our guns ready, and mother has
baked us a knapsack full of gingerbread. We're off
this morning like a shot. Mother says every young man
that can shoulder a musket, ought to fight for his
country in times like these—shoulder, hoo!”
“Why, the rebellious housewife! this cometh of
having Presbyterian blood in her. Thee cannot say
thy mother incited thee.”
“Yea, father—she told us how Nathaniel Greene,
who is now fighting for his country by the side of
Washington, and smiting the red coats hip and thigh,
belonged to our persuasion. She said it was a sin and
a shame that her sons should be carrying corn to the
enemy, instead of driving him before them; so we are
going to try our hands a little. Present arms!”
“A plague on Ruth, my wife, for putting such notions
in thy foolish pate; thee will be read out of meeting,
boys.”
“Never mind, father, when the wars are over, and
we are all free and independent, thee shall read us in
again, with friend Nathaniel Greene. Take aim—fire!
bang!”
Ruth now entered, to say breakfast was ready, and
was retiring, when Farmer Underwood detained her.
“Friend Ruth,” said he, “abide thee a little. Thee
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has been putting wicked notions into the heads of these
foolish boys, and spiriting them on to mischief; even
now they depart to join in the unlawful business of
defending their country. Thee art but half a Quaker,
Ruth. What evil spirit possessed thee?”
“No evil spirit, friend,” replied Ruth, with a mild
and simple fervour. “No evil spirit, friend Nathan;
but almost every day, for more than a year past, I
have seen the smoke of our neighbours' buildings rising
over yonder hill, and I knew who it was that set them
on fire. I have heard story after story of farms laid
waste, cattle driven away, old men and women abused,
even unto death, and young maidens insulted and outraged
by the lawless soldiers from beyond the seas.
And when I saw and heard all this, I said to myself,
in the bitterness of my heart, am I the mother of women,
that my sons should be idle at home, while their
country is bleeding? Nathan, thou art a Friend, but
thou art still a man. Thou hast sons with stout hearts
and willing minds; wouldst thou see thy country—that
generous country which opened its bosom to thy fathers,
in times when no other refuge was left them on
the face of the earth, ravaged and subdued by the descendants
of our ancient persecutors—trodden under
foot, crushed to the earth in cruel bondage, by those
who, at the same time, if they should triumph, will
persecute our faith as they did in past days, and make
us again exiles or martyrs? Couldst thou see this, oh
Nathan! and not lend a hand in such woful times of
need?—couldst thou, friend Nathan?”
“No—d—n me if I could. Ruth, the boys shall
go, and we will both bless them at parting. The
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spirit of truth has spoken from thy lips. They shall
gird on their armour, and if they don't fight bravely,
they are no blood of mine or thine. Zounds and fury,
Ruth! the spirit moveth me sorely to go forth myself,
like David against Goliath, and smite the Philistines.”
“Nay, friend Nathan, thou shalt stay at home, and
take care of me and thy mill, while thou prayest for
the safety of our children and our country. But behold!
some one is riding down yonder hill; he seems
a stranger, and in haste.”
As they turned their eyes in that direction, a horseman
was seen descending with rapid pace into the
valley of the Croton, whereupon, Obadiah marched
out into the middle of the road, with musket on his
shoulder, and awaited his coming in grim array.
“Stay a little, friend,” said Obadiah, as he came up.
“Where art thou riding so fast?”
“What's that to you, friend? suppose I am in haste,
that is no affair of thine.”
“Yea, verily, but it is, friend. Thee may be a spy,
for what I know, and a spy is a serpent in the grass,
I have heard say.”
“Spy! why, what do you know? Have you heard?”
Here the traveller checked himself, and the thought
came over his mind, that his cause or his errand could
not be good, when every clodhopper thus threw him
off his guard and alarmed him into betraying himself.
Recovering, in some measure, his self-possession, he
produced his pass, and asked if that was not sufficient.
Obadiah examined it with the air of an old campaigner,
and answered—
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“Verily, it seemeth so. Thee may go thy way,
friend.”
“Heaven be praised!” again thought the traveller;
“but what a scoundrel do I seem to be, thus swindling
my way at the risk of every moment being discovered
and disgraced.” Then once more addressing Obadiah,
he asked—
“How far do you call it to Kingsbridge, friend?”
“What, thee is going to Kingsbridge, then, friend?”
“I expected an answer, not a question, friend.”
“Yea, verily—hem—it seemeth to me, friend, that
I should like to know what business thee has at Kingsbridge?”
“And it seemeth to me, friend, that I shall not tell
thee, for, as I said before, it is no business of thine.”
“Well, friend, I don't wish to pry into thy secrets.
It is somewhere about four-and-twenty miles to Kingsbridge.”
“Could I get breakfast on the road, some three or
four miles onward?”
“Much nearer, friend,” said Obadiah, “we are just
going to fall to, ourselves, and albeit thee won't answer
a civil question, I can promise thee a welcome.”
“Thank you—thank you, friend, a thousand times;
but I am in great haste, and must be riding a few
miles onward before I stop. I would not miss being
in New York this night for ten thousand guineas. Is
the boat ready?” Being answered in the affirmative,
he entered the boat, and in a few minutes was landed
on the other side.
“I wonder who he can be. I think I have seen him
somewhere before. Verily, now I recollect, Ruth, I
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believe it was the last time I went to New York—to—
to—hem!” and here, friend Nathan stopped short, apparently
in some little confusion.
“I wish I had stopped him,” quoth Obadiah, “for all
his pass. He talked about ten thousand guineas, and
that's an idear that would never come across a continental;
they talk about nothing but continental money.
But now it's too late, for we must be going. Nehemiah,
Uriah, march!” cried he, in a loud voice, which
was answered by the appearance of the two brothers.
“The blessing of a good conscience and a good
cause be upon thee, my sons. Take care to come
back safe and sound,” said the father.
“God in his goodness bless thee, my sons,” said
Ruth. “Go to the good Washington, and tell him, a
mother hath sent the sons of her bosom to fight by his
side. Take care of thy country, and be sure not to
come home with a wound in thy backs.”
The lads departed on their holy errand, from which
one of them never returned. The stout-hearted Obadiah
fell at the head of his company, storming the
works at Yorktown, and the others returned at the
end of the war, with an honourable rank, and honourable
scars to show that it had been dearly earned.
When they disappeared behind the hill, Ruth applied
her snow-white apron to her eyes, and then sat down
to her household cares. It is recorded, however, as a
curious fact, that she never before found such difficulty
in threading her needle.
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CHAPTER IX.
A LOST TRAVELLER—HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS—FOLLY
LEADING REASON—A GLANCE AT OUR HERO, HIS THOUGHTS,
OCCUPATIONS, AND COMPANIONS—HAGAR'S MISSION, SHOWING
THAT PROVIDENCE SOMETIMES MAKES USE OF STRANGE
INSTRUMENTS TO BRING ABOUT EVENTS ON WHICH GREAT
CONSEQUENCES DEPEND.
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The traveller pursued his way so absorbed in his
own reflections, as to leave his horse for a time to the
direction of his own instinct, which is not always a
safe guide to reason. It pleased instinct to turn to the
left, instead of the right, simply because that was
more in a direction towards the accustomed home
of the animal. The traveller, after a ride of some
mile or two, at length came to a deep, sequestered
dell, encompassed on three sides by steep ledges
of rocks, through which coursed a noisy stream, rendered
gloomy by a thick growth of pine and hemlock
nodding over the summit of the rugged precipice.
It struck him that this could not be the highroad leading
to a great city, and perceiving a log-cabin from
whence rose a column of smoke, he rode up and
knocked at the door with the butt-end of his whip
with the intention of inquiring his way. The signal
was answered by the appearance of a woman
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somewhat past her prime, and dressed in the wretched rags
of beggary, who saluted him with the following brief
interrogatory—
“Well, what's your will, good man?”
“I wish to know where I am, good woman.”
It is difficult to tell why, but certain it is that the
phrase, good woman, however complimentary it may
seem, is not generally agreeable to the gentler sex,
and accordingly the occupant of the log-cabin replied
rather tartly—
“You wish to know where you are? Why, good
man, in your skin, I should guess.”
“I mean, I have lost my way, good woman.”
“No, sure? Why, where did you come from?”
“What matters it to you? I tell you I have lost my
way.”
“Well, I tell you, I have not found it. But if you
won't tell me where you came from, maybe you will
tell where you are going to, and then I may tell you
the right way.”
“I want to find the post-road,” said the traveller,
evasively.
“The post-road! why, Lord love you, sir, where
could you come from to get out of the post-road into
such an out-of-the-way place as this? I havn't seen a
stranger here since the beginning of the war.”
“Suppose I have not been on the post-road, yet?”
“No? why, a'nt you come down from the army at
West Point? You look for all the world like an officer
in disguise.”
“Disguise! well, suppose I have, what then?”
“Oh! then you saw General Washington, he that
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beats the red coats so handsomely,” rejoined Hagar
Raven, as she was called, eyeing him keenly.
“He beat the red coats—pshaw!” here he checked
himself, adding, “No, I never saw the face of Mr.
Washington, though I have often seen his back.”
“Never saw him! why, I declare I'd go ten, aye,
twenty miles on foot to see him, any day,” and the
woman kept her eye steadily on him.
“So would I, to see him—hum—but, good woman,
my time is precious. Do you mean to direct me, or
not?”
“What will you give me, sir? It's a long way, and
now I think of it, there is a party of continentals up
at Pine's bridge. Maybe, you'd like to fall in with
them?”
“Continental soldiers! No, no,” added he hastily,
in a careless tone. “No, I have nothing particular to
say to them, and am in great haste, as I told you.
Show me some other way, and I'll give you a dollar.”
“I want none of your continental money, good man.”
“It shall be a silver dollar.”
“What, a real silver dollar? Goody gracious, will
you? I'll show you the way all the country over for
that. Will it be a real Spanish dollar?”
“Yes, yes—lead on, good woman; but mind you keep
clear of the continentals.”
“Never fear, sir.” If that a'nt a British officer,
thought Hagar, my name is not Raven. “Let me put
on my hat and cloak, and make myself decent.”
“O, never mind your hat and cloak,” said the traveller,
impatiently. Vanity and beggary are a pretty
pair! The woman seems half mad or half idiot, was
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the thought of our traveller, while Hagar went into
the cabin, whence she speedily returned, saying, “Now,
sir, I'm fit to be seen like—don't you think I'm rather
pretty?”
“Very—a perfect beauty.”
“Won't you take me up behind you, sir?”
“My horse won't carry double.” Faith, thought he,
I should cut a figure with this angel behind me.
“Well, then, I suppose I must walk; but never mind,
I can sing away the time. Do you like singing, sir?”
“Oh, anything, anything; only get on as fast as you
can.”
“I'm ready, sir;” and Hagar commenced a stave, as
follows, as she led the way with long, masculine steps:
“Come follow, follow me, and you shall see,
As the old man said to his old blind wife,
Come follow, follow me, and then you shall see
What an old blind woman never saw in her life.”
“What do you think that was, sir?”
“I don't know, and I don't care; zounds, why don't
you push on, woman?”
“'Twas a bumble-bee, with his tail cut off. He!
he! now for it, here we go.”
Saying this, she increased her pace, followed by our
traveller, who could not help thinking himself in a promising
way, with a half-crazy or half-idiot witch for his
guide. But there was no help for it now. Not another
house was in sight, and shrugging his shoulders, he
consoled himself with the idea, that as the blind often
lead the blind, some good might come of a crack-brained
guide. But Hagar was not quite as great a
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fool as she affected to be. Though somewhat fantastical
by nature, she was still more cunning, and
partly affected folly, the better to impose upon the
vanity of wisdom. Her occupation was begging, than
which nothing requires a more practical insight into
the workings of the human heart. She knew, from
experience, that thousands who would refuse her charity
as a rational being, might be cheated into pitying
one divested of reason. She was known through all
the surrounding country, over which she roamed at
pleasure; and had, by long prescription, acquired a
sort of right to be relieved, or entertained wherever
she went. No one ever thought of harming her, although
there was sometimes a shrewd malignity in
her tongue, which scarcely would have been endured
from one of higher pretensions to rationality; and
thus, without labour or economy, without kindred or
friends, she lived in that mysterious, inscrutable way,
which so often puzzles those who can scarcely procure
the same comforts by perpetual labour, and unceasing
economy. Among her other peculiarities, Hagar was
a staunch whig, and had often, by the freedom she
enjoyed under the veil of folly, and the strange intuitive
cunning she possessed, obtained information of
special moment to the cause she so zealously espoused.
With this hopeful guide our traveller pursued his
way, unwinding the labyrinth into which he had involved
himself by his absence of mind, and which
eventually led to consequences so momentous to himself
and to millions of his fellow-creatures. Sometimes
he urged her forward by complaints, at others
by promises, while occasionally he would lag behind,
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to escape her ceaseless prattle, and unconnected, unintelligible
scraps of songs. At such times, Hagar
would parody his words and manner, exclaiming, with
affected impatience, “Come, good man, zounds! why
don't you push on? Who makes you wait now, I
wonder?”
After what seemed to him an endless succession of
windings and turnings, they at length struck the post-road,
a mile or two from where the traveller had deviated
from it, and Hagar now demanded the reward,
which was promptly paid. As he drew out his purse,
the woman, who kept her eye fixed upon him so keenly
that it created a disagreeable sensation, observed that
it contained gold, and this circumstance increased the
suspicions she had previously entertained. She well
knew that the poor champions of freedom carried no
such commodity, for she had often of late seen them
exchanging a handful of rags for a meal. Here, they
parted; the traveller taking his way towards the south
to meet his fate, while Hagar stood watching his
course, and brooding over a plan which will be developed
in the sequel. At parting, they only exchanged
these few brief words—
“Good-bye, sir; you are such a likely gentleman,
that I should wish to cultivate your acquaintance. I
hope we shall meet again.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the traveller, as he
spurred his steed and was soon out of sight.
While these events were passing, our hero had principally
devoted himself to rural occupations, and
watching over the feeble old couple at the stone
house, whose passage he endeavoured to smooth, by
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every effort of duty and affection in his power, to the
long home of all the race of man. The sacrifice was
painful, for his spirit longed to be once more labouring
in the cause dear to his heart, for an object, if possible,
still dearer. But in the conflict of opposing duties
and wishes, he chose the right path; since the aid
he might give to his country was but as a drop in the
bucket, while his presence at home and his daily labours,
were indispensable to the comfort, nay, the very
existence of those, whom all the obligations of nature
and gratitude called on him to protect and cherish in
their old age.
He neither sought Colonel Hammond, nor did the
colonel seek him. He kept aloof from Jane, who
never forgot the decent maidenly pride of women by
placing herself in a situation to be sought or avoided.
True, she had long since forgiven the recreant; nay,
reflection and good sense combined, had, after the first
impulse of wounded pride and affection, served only
to raise him still higher in her estimation, and root
him more deeply in her heart. The old continental,
too, when his indignation had cooled down, instead of
blaming John, thanked him in his heart for not taking
advantage of a burst of generosity, which upon reflection,
he thought unworthy a man of his experience.
The colonel was one of millions of human bipeds, who
feel under peculiar obligations to their friends for not
availing themselves of every sudden impulse of gratitude
or liberality, such as frequently flashes forth with
great brilliancy, but goes out like a sky-rocket without
warming anybody. He would have made up matters
with John, had not his daughter, who, the reader may
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remember, hated proud people so much, wrested from
him a solemn promise not to interfere, and most especially
to avoid making any advances during the present
crisis of affairs. Our hero's only consolation was
in feasting on the consciousness of having acted with
honour, and in watching the smoke as it curled gracefully
from the white chimneys of the house of his
ladye love.
Occasionally, however, he made one of a party of
young men, just verging towards manhood, and residing
in the vicinity, to scour the country towards
Kingsbridge, with the purpose of gaining information,
picking up stragglers, or intercepting plunderers. On
these occasions, they always acted under the sanction
or authority of the nearest commanding officer of a
post, and their usual rendezvous was at the house described
in the outset of this history, at the entrance of
Hardscrabble Hole. The party consisted of three
only, Isaac, David, and John, who, not contemplating
a sortie until night, had only met to arrange their
plans, without bringing their arms with them. David,
who was a gay, careless lad, had been singing part of
a stave of an old song, when a dialogue ensued something
to the following purport.
“Come—come, David, no more music now. It is
high time to go home and make our preparations.”
“I'll not stir a peg till I've finished my song,” replied
David, who began another stave, which was interrupted
by a voice from without, humming—
“Fe, faw, fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman—
Fe, faw, fum.”
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“It's that half fool, half witch, half woman, and
half d—l, Hagar!” exclaimed David, as he ran to the
window and inquired whence she came.
“From the place where you are going, friend,” said
she.
“Where's that, beauty?”
“The gallows, friend. You'd make a pretty hanging
bird, singing the tune the old cow died of.”
“Hah! hah! she's too sharp for you, David!” exclaimed
Isaac.
“As sharp as Mrs. Boshin's cider. But do tell me,
what brought you here, beauty?”
“I'll not talk to such a goose as you,” replied Hagar,
at the same time beckoning John out, where they soon
became engaged in deep discussion.
“I suppose,” said David to the other, “she is telling
his fortune. I wonder what she'll make of him, a justice
of the peace, or a schoolmaster?”
“Oh! a schoolmaster, by all means. You know he
is a great scholar, and talks horse Latin.”
“A blue surtout?” said our hero to Hagar.
“Yes, but I'll swear it was never made for him.
You know I was once a tailor's wife, and understand
a fit. I saw him housed at Sing Sing, where he will
get his breakfast. There is not a moment to be lost,
if you wish to intercept him. I am certain he is disguised,
and employed in some mischief.” After reflecting
a few moments, John spoke a few words in a
low voice to Hagar, who hastily departed, while the
three young men strode away to procure their arms
for a purpose, of which our hero promised to apprise
them on the way.
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What this was, will doubtless be easily anticipated
by the judicious reader, from whose intuitive sagacity
it is now next to impossible for the most mystifying
varlet of an author to keep a single secret, either as
to the progress or catastrophe of his story. And hence
it is, beyond all doubt, that divers ingenious writers
of romantic fiction, do wilfully entangle their web of
adventures in such inextricable mystery and confusion,
that the gentle reader is left pretty much in the predicament
of a hound who has lost the scent, and travels
round and round, in an endless circle of perplexity,
until, peradventure, his breath fails him, and he
sinks down in a state of utter exhaustion. Nor is
the writer so much to blame for using all his art,
as it were, to dodge his readers and put them on the
wrong track, seeing that nothing but characters acting
altogether out of character, causes without effects,
and effects without causes, reinforced by striking incidents,
producing results diametrically opposite to
their natural consequences, can possibly achieve that
incomprehensible medley, that sublime obscurity, which
utterly confounds the understanding, baffles the sagacity
of the most experienced reader of romance, and
from which the denouement at length comes forth,
like a cat from a strange garret, only to create a more
agreeable surprise from being so entirely unexpected
and out of place. But to return from this digression,
which we present as a general apology for the cruel
mystifications which writers of romance are in their
self-defence compelled to inflict on their readers.
Previous to their departing to furnish themselves
with arms, John communicated the information he had
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received from Hagar, and his conviction that some
mystery was connected with the journey of the stranger.
The principal danger was, that he might get
beyond their reach, before they could procure their
arms, and gain a proper position to intercept him;
and to delay him as long as possible, Hagar had undertaken
to meet him on the bridge, near the church,
solicit his charity, and arrest his progress by practising
all the mummeries of her calling. They then parted,
after appointing a meeting at Clark's Kill bridge,
which spanned a small stream crossing the road, at a
point bordered by a wood, which presented a favourable
spot for concealment. In the lapse of little more
than half a century, the wood has disappeared, the
stream dwindled into a little rivulet, almost dry in
summer; and the majestic tulip-tree, which constituted
by far the most remarkable object in the immediate
vicinity, has disappeared, leaving not a vestige behind.
It was several years ago shivered by lightning
from top to bottom, fell to the ground, and the precise
spot where it stood, can no longer be ascertained.
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CHAPTER X.
A BREAKFAST SCENE—A LEFT-HANDED PANEGYRIC ON WAR—
A LAND SCRAPE—A COUNTRY CHURCH—A RARE FORTUNETELLER,
WHOSE PREDICTIONS ARE EVENTUALLY ACCOMPLISHED—
THE TRAVELLER INTERCEPTED—OFFERS AND REFUSALS,
SHOWING THAT POVERTY IS NOT QUITE SO GREAT A
ROGUE AS SOME PEOPLE THINK.
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
At parting with his eccentric guide, our traveller
pursued his way briskly, until he came to a little town,
pleasantly situated, where he halted to refresh himself
and horse at a small inn by the roadside. He was
weary, and his mind but ill at ease, for he could not
hide from himself that his situation was equivocal,
and felt as every honourable man must feel when imposing
on the world in an assumed character. As he
sat musing in this unpleasant state of mind, a young
girl, of rather interesting appearance, and modest manner,
was passing in and out the room, preparing his
meal, of whom, at length, rather from idleness, than
any interest in the question, he inquired the name of
the village.
“Sing Sing, sir,” she replied.
“It must be a very musical place. I suppose you
do nothing but sing all day long.”
“No, indeed, sir—we have no heart to sing; even
the birds have left off singing, I believe.”
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“Aye, indeed; and what may be the reason?”
“Our fathers and brothers are gone to the wars, or
to their graves; the fields have grown up into weeds,
for there is no one to cultivate them, and if there were,
they would be plundered before harvest time. I have
heard say the beggar may sing before the robber, but
believe he seldom has the heart to sing.”
“And your sweethearts—they too are gone to the
wars, I suppose.”
“We don't think of such things now, sir.”
“No—what do you think of, then?”
“Of insult, poverty, and starvation.”
“Suppose you take me for a sweetheart,” said he,
smiling.
“Your breakfast is ready, sir.”
“Nay, I must have a kiss—one kiss!” and he advanced
towards her, placing his arm around her waist.
“Oh, my poor mother!” exclaimed she, bursting into
tears.
“Never mind your mother, she don't see you now.”
“Yes she does, and my father too.”
“Indeed—where are they?”
“In heaven, I trust, sir.”
“What! an orphan?” exclaimed he, quickly disengaging
his arm. “Forgive me, my poor girl. How
long have you been here? you look as if you were
not born for this place.”
“No, sir—necessity forced me to it.”
“As how, poor girl?”
“Do you see that black chimney, yonder, over the
fields?”
“What, close by the willow tree?”
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“That was my home, sir; but they came one dark
night, about two months ago, and burnt it down, because
they said we were d—d rebels, and my brothers
were serving in the continental army.”
“Who burnt it down?”
“The red coats, sir.”
“The red devils reward them, I say; but go on, and
tell me all.”
“In that house lived my father and mother.”
“And they murdered them?”
“No, sir, not with their swords. They set fire to the
house, in the dead of night, and then rode away, huzzaing
for King George. My father was old, and confined
with rheumatism; my mother sick with ague
and fever, and—so they were burnt to death. I was
young, and escaped, though I could not help them;
and having no other home, I came here to earn my
bread, and be insulted by whoever pleases.”
“Forgive me—I entreat you to forgive me; I was
but in sport.”
“It may be sport to you, sir, but it is death to me.”
Saying this, she left the room.
“Bad—bad—bad,” said the traveller, shaking his
head. “I shall see to this when I get to New York.
The rebels can neither be conciliated or conquered by
such treatment.”
“Sir,” said the little girl, who had returned to wait
on him.
“I—I—mean, can I do anything for you. Will
money be of any service to you, my poor girl?” and
he took her kindly by the hand.
“No, sir. But you look as if you might belong to
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the army. I have two brothers there, named George
and Thomas Raymond. If you should chance to see
them, tell them you saw me, and that I am well; but
don't tell them what I have been telling you, for
if they knew, they would butcher every red coat that
fell into their hands. There is blood enough shed in
battle, and though I own I cannot forgive their cruelty,
I sometimes pray God to forgive them.”
“What a wreath to deck the annals of glory!”
thought the traveller, as he sat down to breakfast.
“Surely fate can be little else than a chance medley.
She fires at random, careless where she hits, or whose
heart she pierces. What had this poor girl done, that
she should be left fatherless, motherless, homeless, to
wait at a tavern on me; me, who at this moment am
about to aim a death-blow at the heart of her country?
It might humble the pride of the hero, did he know
that, after all his exertions, he is but warring against
decrepid age, helpless women, and innocent babes.
It is they that bear the brunt of bloody war, and pay
the price of glory.”
On his departure, he continued for some time occupied
by a train of reflections, arising out of the tale to
which he had been listening, until arriving at the summit
of a hill, a scene broke upon his view so magnificently
beautiful, that it at one and the same moment,
arrested his progress and his thoughts. Towards the
north, he saw the distant Highlands, rising in a long
line of blue waving curves, tracing the skies from east
to west, and passing away in gradually softened tints,
till they melted and mingled with the clouds. To the
south, a fair expanse of variegated fields, meadows, and
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woods, gay with the first tints of autumn, spread far
and wide; while towards the west, a long line of bold
hills skirted the noble river, and ended at last in those
majestic cliffs, projecting out at intervals, one beyond
the other, like massive battlements and towers, not
the fabled work of the giants or Cyclops, but of the
sublime Architect of the universe.
The soul of our traveller was full of poetry. He
loved nature in her beautiful attire, and his feelings
promptly associated themselves with the prospect
around him. From thence, by a natural transition,
his recollections wandered towards his native land,
the scenes of his early days, and the wonted inmates
of his heart, whom a distance of three thousand miles,
and an intervening ocean, only rendered nearer and
dearer. Murmuring a name dearer than all the rest
besides, he spurred his horse, and descended into a
solitary woodland glen, which, though not houseless,
seemed quite deserted. Anon he came in sight of the
steeple of a rustic stone church, peeping its taper point
above a grove of ancient locust-trees, where the road
making a sudden turn to the left, led into a narrow
pass, shaded with trees, and coursed by a large brook,
over which a bridge appeared at intervals as he proceeded,
on which he was somewhat startled to perceive
some one standing, as if awaiting his arrival.
Coming up to the bridge, he at once recognised his
former crack-brained guide, posted as if resolved to
arrest his course, and the rencontre was so peculiarly
unwelcome, in his present frame of mind, that
he addressed Hagar rather unceremoniously, with
“What do you want? and what are you doing here?”
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“Oh, consider, cow, consider!” replied Hagar, adopting
the whining cant of beggary. “Consider, cow,
consider, as the song says; shall I sing it for you, sir?
Consider I'm a poor, lonesome woman, with a family
of thirteen children, one for every state, you know;
and a husband that can't lift his hand to his head, for
the rheumatiz. For charity's sake give me a guinea,
won't you, honey dear? Do, now, and I'll sing you
one of my best songs.”
“A guinea? why, it is only a few hours ago that
I gave you a dollar.”
“Aye, sir, but you can't say you gave it me, for I
earned it honestly by showing you the right road. But
whether or no, it is all gone, and spent, and I've no
larning to make up for its loss. I bought a paper of
pins, and two jew's-harps, of an old tinkering pedlar,
for my little pickaninnies to larn music.”
“Poor idiot!” exclaimed the traveller. “Have you
no friends, that you are wandering about between the
lines, in these dangerous times?”
“Oh, sir, I am not afraid of any body but the ghosts,
and the red coats, that are so fond of pretty women.
The Yagers would skin a flint, but they can get nothing
from poor me; and as for the tories, I always
scratch out their eyes whenever I meet them. Now
do, honey dear, bless your heart—I know by your handsome
face you must be tender-hearted; now do give
a guinea to a poor soul that lives in a hollow tree, and
tells fortunes.”
“Will you tell mine?”
“What will you give me, sir?”
“That depends on what you give me. If you
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promise me the command of his Majesty's forces in New
York, perhaps I may give you a guinea.”
“What! then you are a red coat? Well, I do declare,
I dreamt so the night after to-morrow. Hah!
hah! hah! how strange it is that my dreams always
come true. Isn't it, honey dear?”
“Pshaw! let me pass, good woman?”
“Not till I've told your fortune, and earned my
guinea. Come, honey—hold out your hand, that's the
book of fate.” Here she snatched his hand, before he
was aware, and looking him full in the face, with a
deal of precious mummery, began her prognostics.
“Ah! what do I see here? Here is G, stands for
gallows; here is S, stands for spy—and here is a twisted
rope, that stands for hanging; and here—you'll not
live long, my friend, you'll not live long.” And she
shook her head with awful solemnity.
“Out of my way, you hag, and let me pass, or I'll ride
over you!”
“Well, I declare, the more I look at you, the more
faith I have in my dream. You've got the most hanging
look, honey dear, of any one I almost ever saw. The
gallows will be your end, so sure as your life had a
beginning. You'll dance upon nothing, without a fiddle,
while I stand by and sing hey diddle, diddle.”
Here she practised divers grotesque evolutions, taking
care to keep always directly before the horse. “My
guinea, sweet sir, my golden guinea.”
“Alas! poor crazy idiot! what a fool was I to suppose
she meant anything by her predictions. Here is
something, though not a guinea. Now let me pass,
my time is precious.” The traveller took out his purse,
and again it disclosed its golden store.
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“Ha! ha! he! he!” and Hagar laughed like a sheer
idiot. “La! what beautiful shiners! The Yankee
officers have no such pretty pictures as these. I swear,
you shan't stir from this spot, till you give me a guinea.
I'll keep it for a love token, to put me in mind of you
after you come to the gallows, as you certainly will do,
soon. Come, honey dear—you won't want your money
long.”
“What are you about? let go my bridle!”
“A guinea, sweet sir—a golden guinea!”
“Let go, I say; or by heaven, I'll gallop over your
body!”
A struggle now ensued. The traveller spurred his
horse, and Hagar clung to the bridle, at the risk of
being crushed under the feet of the startled animal,
who reared and plunged furiously. At this moment,
the report of a gun was distinctly heard. Hagar relinquished
the bridle, and the rider dashing forward,
disappeared in an instant. “I've told his fortune,”
said she, chuckling, and pursuing her course in another
direction.
The traveller rode on, perplexed not a little at the
behaviour of the crack-brained guide, which he was
at a loss whether to ascribe to folly, madness, or cunning.
Had he been inclined to superstition, this second
prediction would have startled him, for he remembered
that, just previous to his leaving home, for the new
world, he had accompanied a party of gay young people
to a famous fortune-teller, and that on inspecting
his hand, the sybil had announced, that he was going
to a distant country, beyond the sea, where it would
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be his fortune to be hanged.[3] “We all laughed heartily,”
thought he, “but who knows? stranger things
have happened in this topsy-turvy world. It is, however,
quite impossible I should be known to this shedevil,
that thus besets me. There is no harm, however,
in a little more speed.” And thus communing
with himself, he spurred his horse into a gallop.
He had now passed all the American posts; a
few miles' ride would bring him to Kingsbridge, and
the great object of his mission be accomplished. Congratulating
himself on the favourable prospects before
him, he proceeded onward with a light heart, until
coming to a little rustic bridge, which crossed a brook
intersecting the road, the flooring of which, being
somewhat loose and decayed, caused him to slacken
his pace, his reins were suddenly seized by a man,
who darted from the wood at the roadside, and ordered
him to stop at his peril.
Thrown off his guard, for a moment, by this action,
so totally unexpected, the traveller hastily asked, “Are
you from above, or below?” two phrases usually employed
to designate the American and British armies,
one of which was in the Highlands, the other occupying
the city of New York. John, for he it was, warily
answered, “From below;” at which, the other expressed
great satisfaction, declaring himself of the same
party, and adding that his business was urgent; that
he was exceedingly anxious to get to head-quarters,
and that he desired to be permitted to proceed without
a moment's delay.
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“I regret, sir,” said John, “that your business is so
urgent, as it is absolutely necessary to detain you a
little longer.”
“By what authority, sir? and who are you?”
“A rebel!”
“Let me pass! let go my reins!” exclaimed the traveller,
making a violent effort to ride over him.”
“Dismount this instant, or I will pull you from your
horse! be you whom you may, rebel, or red coat, soldier,
or citizen—dismount!”
“If I were armed, I would dispute your commands,
my friend; but as that is not the case, I must resort to
peaceful measures. Can you read? do you know
what this means?” He then drew forth a paper,
which he handed to John, who, after looking it over,
respectfully, yet firmly, addressed him as follows:
“This paper, as well as I can judge, sir, is genuine.
But not being acquainted with the hand-writing of
General Arnold, you must excuse me if I am not quite
satisfied. You are here under circumstances to excite
great suspicion. You have acknowledged yourself an
enemy, and displayed great satisfaction at hearing I
belonged to your party, for which there was no occasion,
had you been on lawful business, with a pass in
your pocket. I must know more, before I let you go.
You must accompany me into this wood, and submit
to further examination.”
“By what authority, sir?”
“By the authority which God gives to every man
defending his rights and his country.”
“Rebellious cant!” muttered the traveller; “but you
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shall answer for this contempt of General Arnold's
pass. Do you know the consequences?”
“Not exactly; but be they what they may, for this
once, I am willing to incur them. Dismount, sir! or
I shall be under the necessity of forcing you, although
I wish to avoid it, if possible. There is no use in hesitating;
for I must, and will be satisfied.”
Perceiving the traveller still hesitated, he quietly
led his horse into the wood, where he was still more
surprised to find our hero's two companions, with
whom it had been previously concerted not to appear,
except at a given signal. His impression was, that
he had fallen into the hands of one of those lawless
bands of marauders, whose exploits between the lines
were pretty notorious to both parties.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I am in your power; but I
trust you mean no violence to my person.”
“Do you take us for robbers, sir?” replied John. “I
assure you we are honest men, as times go, and will
take nothing from you, but what you have no right to
carry.”
“Very well; but before you proceed, be good enough
to examine that paper once more. I assure you it
came from the general's own hands.”
“It certainly appears to be a pass from General
Arnold, to John Anderson. Is that your name, sir?”
said John, eyeing him keenly.
“John Anderson is my—I am called by that name,”
replied the traveller, with some little hesitation.
“On your honour, sir?”
“On my honour,” and he coloured deeply.
“Excuse me, sir,” observed John, after a little
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reflection, “for doubting the honour of one who appears
to be a gentleman. But as I observed before, you are
here under very doubtful circumstances; and your
behaviour at the moment I arrested you, was also calculated
to excite suspicion. Our country has many
secret enemies, and the intentions of the commander-in-chief
are frequently known to the enemy, long before
they are publicly manifested. I must, and will
be satisfied before we part; and for this purpose, I
hope you will quietly submit to a search which shall
be made with as little offence as possible.”
Finding it would be vain to resort to resistance
or pursuasion, the traveller submitted, and a search
commenced, which ended in the discovery of nothing
which threw any light on his character or mission.
He then inquired whether it was their pleasure to
permit him to proceed on his way, again repeating the
expression of his anxiety to reach the city, where he
had business of great consequence.
“One moment, sir,” replied John, “there is one part
of your dress we have neglected. Be good enough to
permit us to pull off your boots.”
“My boots! surely, gentlemen, you don't mean to insult
me?” exclaiming the traveller hastily, and changing
colour.
“Why insult you more by searching your boots, than
any other portion of your dress? Come, sir—I'll be
your servant—sit down on this rock. It is useless to
resist, for I must and will know why you oppose
pulling off your boots, when you made no objection to
every other part of your dress being examined.”
“May-be the gentleman has got no stockings on; it
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is not an uncommon thing in these hard times,” quoth
David.
The traveller seeing it must be so, sat down, and
put forth his left leg.
“The right, if you please, sir,” said John.
“Where is the difference? take this, or none.”
“Have done with this trifling, sir,” cried the other,
impatiently, and seizing the right boot, drew it off in
a twinkling. Then holding up and shaking it, a thin
packet of papers fell out, which, on examination, proved
to consist of a plan of the works at West Point; the
disposition of the American forces; directions for attacking
them with advantage, together with a letter
from General Arnold, the commander of that most important
post, stipulating its delivery on the appearance
of the British army under Sir Henry Clinton. The
magnitude and importance of this discovery, was fully
comprehended by John and his companions; while,
during the examination of the papers, the traveller
sat apparently reflecting on the best means of escaping
from the very serious predicament in which he now
felt himself involved.
“Well, Mr. Anderson, what say you to this?” said
John, after the examination was over.
“Thus much, sir. Here is my purse, which is pretty
well filled, and here is my watch, which is worth at
least fifty guineas. Take these, give me the papers,
and let me go. You seem to be poor men by your
dress, and it will be a long time before you will earn
as much by opposing your lawful sovereign. But I
can promise you ten, aye, fifty times as much, if you
will accompany me to head-quarters. Name your
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terms, and I will pledge my honour to the bargain.”
“Honour! pray, Mr. Anderson, leave that out. There
may be honour among thieves, none among spies
and traitors. But let that pass. If you buy us, you
must pay well. None of your forty pieces for selling
our country to the king, and our souls to perdition.”
“What say you to a thousand guineas?”
“A good round sum, but not quite enough. In one
word, Mr. Anderson, the king cannot buy us. Do not
then believe us serious in thus bargaining for the destruction
of our country. These papers concerning
West Point, now almost the only stronghold of liberty,
your extreme anxiety to get to head-quarters at New
York, and the high bribe you offer, are all convincing
proofs that you are concerned in some treason of great
magnitude. Not five, nor ten, nor twenty thousand
guineas, could you lay them down here before us, shall
buy these papers or release your person. You go with
us to be delivered up at the nearest continental post.”
“You have only been bantering me, then?”
“I wished to estimate the importance of Mr. Anderson,”
replied our hero, who was now fully satisfied
that was not his name.
“Are you all of one mind, gentlemen?”
“Exactly,” said David; “we don't mind selling the
produce of our land, when the red coats, the tories,
and the Skinners leave us any; but we will never sell
our country. You must go with us, sir.”
“Well, well, take me where you will, but treat me
like a gentleman.”
“Gentleman!” cried John, warmly; “do you call it
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the course of a gentleman to wear a disguise, as I
know you do? to appear under false colours and a
feigned name? to sneak in and out of your enemy's
camp under cover of night? to league with traitors in
a base conspiracy against a nation's freedom? to become
a spy, and then try to escape the consequences
by bribing poor but honest men to betray their cause
and their country? You shall be treated kindly,
though your people have seldom set us the example.”
The traveller seemed somewhat surprised, rather
than offended, at hearing such language and such sentiments
from a plain country lad in homespun clothes,
and involuntarily entered on his defence.
“What I have done was in the course of my duty,
and I stand ready to answer it to my God, my king,
and my country. No more schooling, but take me
where you will. I am weary with a long journey,
will you trust me to ride?”
“You might run away from us, who are on foot.”
“Shoot me, if I attempt to escape; I pledge my—”
“No more of honour, sir. You have deceived us
once already. On condition, however, you take your
chance of three bullets in case you attempt to escape,
you may ride. Come, boys, now for head-quarters.”
The traveller mounted his horse, and escorted by the
three young lads of Westchester, turned back towards
the north, when he had much rather have been “serving
his sovereign in the south.” His subsequent fate
has become a part of the history of those times, and
will not soon be forgotten. He perished on the scaffold,
a victim to the stern, but just laws of war; yet
his fate may almost be envied, since the very people
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against whose freedom he was plotting, lamented the
necessity of the sacrifice, while his countrymen, in
their admiration of his loyalty, forgot that by acting
as a spy he forfeited the character of a soldier. It was
remarked by one of his most illustrious cotemporaries,
“that never man suffered death with more justice, or
deserved it less;” and it may be said with equal truth,
that had he lived to the utmost age of man, he would
in all probability never have acquired by his exploits
the fame he has gained by his misfortunes. He has
become, as it were, the hero of one of the brightest
pages of our history; and the sympathy bestowed on
his fate, has, in a great degree, superseded the glory
which justly belongs to the three youthful volunteers
of Westchester, who discovered the treason of which
he was one of the instruments, and spurned the bribes
he offered for its concealment.
eaf315v2.n3[3] A fact related by himself afterwards.
-- 158 --
CHAPTER XI.
AN EXAMPLE, SHOWING THAT AS ONE ANIMAL FEEDS ON ANOTHER,
SO THE HAPPINESS OF ONE-HALF THE WORLD ARISES
FROM THE MISERY OF THE OTHER HALF—THE TINKER VISITS
COLONEL HAMMOND, AND TELLS A MUCH BETTER STORY
THAN THAT OF THE UNDINE—JANE ONCE MORE VISITS THE
OLD STONE HOUSE, WHERE SHE MEETS A STRANGE PERSON,
AND RECEIVES AMPLE SATISFACTION FOR A PREVIOUS OFFENCE—
A YOUNG COUPLE LOSING THEIR WAY, WHICH THEY
FIND IN A CURIOUS MANNER.
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
The good service performed by the three young
farmers of Westchester, was received by their country
with a burst of grateful applause. They were
thanked by Washington in the presence of the army;
the glorious Congress of that trying time unanimously
passed a vote of thanks, and decreed that a medal
should be presented to each one, bearing the honourable
motto of “Fidelity.” A pension was also granted
them for life, and to these testimonials of national
gratitude was added the donation of a fine farm to
each from their native state.
John, who had necessarily been detained as a witness
on the trial of the traveller, whose capture produced
such important consequences to himself and his
country, was now exceedingly impatient to return
home. Besides his anxiety about the good old couple
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there, he now felt himself authorized to claim the
promise of the old continental, and to aspire to his mistress
at least on equal terms. The moment he was
permitted, he left the army at Tappan, crossed the
river, and full of throbbing anticipations, bent his
steps towards the old stone house.
Leaving him on his road, let us once more turn to
the affairs of the colonel and his daughter, whose current
of domestic happiness, to say the truth, had not
lately ran quite so smoothly as was wont in days of
yore. Jane had lost much of her cheerfulness, and
her step was not so lightsome. She was given to
long fits of melancholy musing, and long, lonesome
rambles of evening, along the little river which ran
through the domains of her father, who many a time
and oft, got out of all his stock of patience, which in
truth was not great. He was, in fact, one of those
persons, who, instead of sympathising with sorrow or
low spirits, prefer to frighten them away by falling
into a passion, and railing at their indulgence.
“Well, moppet,” said he, as he came up in high
good-humour, having caught a fat mole in his trap,
for the first time in his life, as is believed; “well—but
Thunder and Mars! what are you sitting there for,
like a toad in a hole, moping and mewling about nothing?
Thinking, I suppose, of that proud, beggarly
puppy, John, who, I understand, has been absent for
two or three weeks past, nobody knows where. I
should not be at all surprised if he had got into the
hospital-ship, again.”
“Heaven forbid!” replied Jane.
“What business has the blockhead to be there, when
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a soldier can always get killed if he likes? Before
they should take me prisoner, I'd be cut into mincemeat.
Your old continentals are not to be caught like
rabbits without fighting. Thunder and Mars! if I only
was the man I used to be, in the old French war, I'd
offer my services to drive the red coats out of New
York in less than no time.”
“But would you leave me, and all your improvements?”
asked she, with one of her old-fashioned
smiles.
“Who thinks of improvement, except in military
discipline, when his country is in danger. Thunder
and Mars! a soldier's life is the life after all. It is
only after hearing the bullets whistle about your ears,
and dodging death a hundred times, that a man may
be said to enjoy life. One hour of jollification after a
victory, is worth all the regular hum-drum, sleepy
frolics, in a whole life. Blood and fire! if I was only
twenty or thirty years younger!” and the old continental
stumped about the room, vociferating—
“Why, soldiers, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys,
Whose bus'ness 'tis to die?”
“Ah! Jane, if you had only heard the immortal
Wolfe sing that song, it would have made a man of
you.”
“I am glad to see you in such spirits, sir,” said Jane,
with a deep sigh.
“I'm glad to see you in such spirits, sir,” echoed the
old continental, mimicking her; “Jane, you tell a—
fib—you'd be glad to see me snivelling, and sighing,
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and turning up the whites of my eyes, like a duck in
thunder, I know you would. You want me to sympathise
with you, as you call it. Confound all sympathy,
say I; it only encourages people to make fools of
themselves, by being miserable, when they should be
forgetting their miseries.”
“Father, who is that coming up the road, yonder?”
asked Jane, pointing in that direction.
“Where? Why, yes, it is that roving, cheating, lying
ragamuffin, Mangham, the pedlar, tinker, and
Jack of all trades, and both sides to boot.”
“Ah! so it is. Perhaps he brings us news of—”
and here the young maiden suddenly checked herself.
“He bring news! He never put two syllables together,
without a lie between them. He is no more
to be depended on, than the almanac, or Rivington's
Royal Gazette. If he comes in, I insist on your not
asking him a single question about that magnanimous
puppy, John. Yes!” continued the colonel, rubbing
his hands, “yes, there he is, coming through the gate;
now—hem—now he will cheat me to a certainty.”
The tinker approached, and looking into the window,
asked, “May I enter your domicilio, colonel?”
“Aye, aye, come in, and take me in; for that follows
as a matter of course.”
The itinerant trader entered, exhibiting a long, lean,
raw-boned, hard-featured figure, with a countenance
of mingled roguery and archness, dressed in a leather
apron, short breeches without buckles at the knee,
woollen stockings, and carrying a tinker's establishment
on his back. He spoke as if he could not stop
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his tongue when it once began wagging, and fidgeted
about all the while he was talking.
“Any spoons to run, pots to patch, kettles to mend,
anything in my way, colonel? do it—do it—done—as
quick as wink.”
“Nothing now, Mangham. But where have you
been, and where did you last come from, hey?”
“Why, I have been to New York, bless your heart,
mended six dozen pewter spoons for Sir Henry, patched
a copper kettle for the Baroness Knyphausen, ground
a pair of scissors for the baron to clip his whiskers,
bribed a sentinel with a paper of pins, and came off
with full pockets and colours flying.”
“Well, well, we all know how much gospel you
preach; but tell me now, seriously, what news do you
bring?”
“Oh! lots of news, colonel. Sir Henry is deeply
smitten with a fat Dutch alderman's wife, who can't
speak a word of English, and sends her letters every
day, which she brings to her husband to read for her.
The red coats pay their debts with sterling promises,
twenty shillings in the pound; and old Cunningham
was detected the other day doing a kindness to a rebel
prisoner.”
“Come, come, Mangham, I can swallow anything
but that. He would sooner be caught picking his
pocket, or stealing his allowance. But Thunder and
Mars! have done with your jokes, and give us a little
gospel. I'll not let you cheat me, if you don't.”
“Well, then, seriously, colonel, there is great news—
news that will make you stare like a stuck pig—news
that will make your queue stand up on end—news
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that will strike you dumb, deaf, and blind, colonel—
news—”
“Tinker!” exclaimed the colonel, raising his cane,
“if you don't tell what it is without any more of
your confounded rigmarole, I'll make the fire fly faster
out of your pate than the lies from your mouth. Quick,
sir, out with it, or begone about your business.”
“Patience, patience, colonel, till I collect my ideas.
It is the greatest news, the most extraordinary, the—”
“Now do, Mr. Mangham, tell us at once, won't you?
I am dying with curiosity,” said Jane.
“Oh! when a lady requests it, by all means. Well,
then, the news is—and yet I dare say you have heard,—
you must have heard it before now, though it's a
great secret, only known to people that know everything.
I happened to hear them talking it over a bottle
after dinner, at Sir Henry's, when they were all a
little in for it, and didn't see me popping my head in
every now and then.”
“Tinker!” cried the colonel, flourishing his cane.
“Well, colonel, first and foremost, Arnold has turned
traitor.”
“You lie! you long-tongued, cheating rascal! He,
traitor! the bravest fellow in the whole continental
army, except Bloody Anthony, by land and by water.
Say that again, and by the Lord Harry I'll set the dogs
on you. He, traitor!”
“Yes, colonel, as black as an old iron tea-kettle.
He has sold his country to the enemy, and his soul to
the—hem! mus'nt swear before ladies. It's all signed,
sealed, and delivered, army, cannon, West Point, and
all.”
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“Delivered! why, good God! what do you mean?”
“No, not exactly delivered, but no thanks to him,
as good luck would have it.”
“Now look, you tinker, here is a guinea, if you will
tell the truth right straight forward, in as few words
as possible. Take it, and speak the truth; or lie, and
I'll send you to perdition.”
“A bargain, colonel—and now I tell you seriously
what I heard, though not where I said I did. I heard
it all along the road, as I came up, and read it in general
orders. By the way, your neighbour's grandson,
over yonder, had a finger in the pie.”
“He?” ejaculated Jane, turning pale.
“Yes—it seems he and two other young men have
taken a great spy, with plans of the fortifications at
West Point, and a letter from General Arnold, promising
to give them all up to Sir Henry, if he would
only come and take them. They say John and the
other brave lads, have well-nigh saved their country.
General Washington has thanked them; Congress has
thanked them, and voted them a medal, with the word,
`Fidelity,' on the back of it, with a pension besides;
and the state of New York has given them each a
thumping farm, because they were offered thousands
of guineas to let the spy go, but they refused, like honest
fellows, to sell their country, and carried him to
head-quarters.”
“Tinker, on thy soul, is all this true?”
“True as gospel, colonel.”
“Hold up your head, my darling—don't look so pale,”
said the old continental to his daughter. “Why don't
you laugh, sing, and dance like me? He won't refuse
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you now, the conceited blockhead. Fol, lol, de rol—
sing, dance, laugh, and be merry, I say—huzza for the
Westchester boys! Thunder and Mars! this beats old
Ti, out and out. I'll have such a wedding—I'll have
such a row! I'll make the whole township reel and
sing, dance, drink, and fight any man that won't keep
me company. Tinker, you shall be one of the groomsmen,
for bringing such good news. Hey diddle, diddle!
d—n this old timber leg! Why, Jane—you look as if
you were sorry for this!”
“He won't think of me, now, father; he is such a
great man, and yet I could weep for joy.”
“Weep for a fiddlestick! sing, dance, frisk, and be
merry, like me; that's the way to be joyful. I never
wept for joy in all my life, and hold it a crying sin to
fly in the face of good luck in that way. It is what
I call ungrateful. Fol, de rol, lol! why, soldiers,
why?”
“Father,” said Jane, the colour returning to her
cheek, “may I walk over to our neighbours, this
morning? I heard the good woman was not well.
Now don't look so droll at me, sir, you know he is not
there, and I should like to be the first to tell them such
good news.”
“Well—well—go, in God's name. It is a pleasant
thing to carry happy tidings. Go, and tell the old
folks I will call over and see them this evening—no,
to-morrow morning, and mind you come back before
dark.”
The daughter took her way towards the old stone
house, in a tumult of conflicting feelings; which,
as they will readily occur to minds of kindred delicacy,
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and all others would be incapable of comprehending,
we shall forbear to analyze. She often lingered on
her way, and more than once resolved to return. She
stopped along the sequestered path which followed
the windings of the stream, to read the past, and reflect
on the future. The pride of woman at one moment
revolted at the possibility of a suspicion that she was
throwing herself in the way of one who had declined
the acceptance of her hand; but this feeling was almost
instantly quelled by the conviction which had
only slept for one moment in her heart, that she was
only the dearer to him for his rejection. She had long
since done full justice to his motives, and schooled her
heart to await the event, whatever it might be. Still,
had she not been confident that John was far away,
she would most assuredly have denied herself the
pleasure she anticipated from being the bearer of
news, which she well knew would be received with
joy and gratitude.
Thus thinking, and thus feeling, she arrived at the
old mansion, where she was kindly welcomed by the
aged woman, who soon alluded to the long absence
of her grandson, saying that he had promised never to
leave them more; but that she knew he must be either
serving his country, or had become a victim to her
cause. The old man, as usual, was rambling about,
talking to himself, and picking up sticks, with his bare
head exposed to the sun and the wind. The ties of
nature, and the recollections of the past, were now as
nothing to him. He knew those he was accustomed
to see every day, but he knew not who they were,
and received the attentions necessary to his forlorn
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condition, without consciousness, and without gratitude.
He entered the house soon after the arrival of
Jane, with his bundle of sticks, which he carefully laid
on the hearth, and then sat down, talking occasionally
to himself, while Jane was relating the story of his
grandson. It was received with tempered joy by the
old woman, and listless unconsciousness by the poor,
stricken patriarch, whose brain seemed to have retained
but one single impression. His ear caught the
word tory, and he noticed it by repeating his accustomed
saying, “Yes, yes—a tory is a highway robber.”
It may afford some insight into the operations of
the human mind, to state, that among the few books
which the old man was accustomed to pore over, in his
better days, was a history of the reign of Queen Anne,
where a similar derivation is given to the name of tory.
Thus passed the time, until just as Jane was preparing
to return home, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching,
and her heart began to palpitate in her bosom.
She hastily retreated through an opposite door, just
as John entered by another, and caught only a glance at
her shadow as she disappeared. He supposed it was
the little waiting maid, and if he thought at all on the
subject, his feelings at once took another direction, as
he once more received the welcome and blessing of
his grandmother.
“You need not tell me where you have been, my
son; we know it all, and thank God for it.”
“And how and where did you hear it, mother?”
“Why, from Jane Hammond, there;” for the old
dame, seeing none of the clearest, had not observed
her silent retreat.
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“Jane Hammond, there—where?” cried John, eagerly
looking round.
“Why, I declare! why she was here just the moment
you came; but the sly little toad has ran away, I see.”
If John had not ran after her, he would be no longer
any hero of ours; and we should have left his future
adventures at the bottom of the pool of oblivion. He
did follow, not on a snail pace, but a hand-gallop, and
overtook our heroine just as she entered the sequestered
path they had so often trodden in days of yore.
She felt him coming—she distinguished his panting
breath, and heard him at length whisper:
“Jane—dearest Jane, don't run away from me.
Stay—dearest Jane, and hear what I have to say in
excuse for my former ingratitude. When you hear
all, you will forgive me, and once more take me to
your heart. Was it indeed you, whose shadow I saw
as I came home?”
Jane could not tell whether it was herself or not;
but it was, perhaps, just as well. In a little time, he
felt the soft pressure of a willing hand, which continued
locked in his; and would have convinced any one
but an infidel, that it was no other than her. One
look from John had satisfied her pride and her love.
“I know all,” said she, in a low, soft, silvery voice,
“and now it is my turn to be proud.”
“Ah! Jane—listen to me seriously. My pride has
had a fall, and I have suffered severely for it. But
now—now—I can ask you without permission; will
you trust your happiness to my care? Will you be
my dear, dear wife?”
“You will not refuse me again?”
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“Never! unless I become unworthy of you. Answer
me, dearest Jane!”
The answer of Jane was made in a whisper, which
was neither overheard by the echoes, or blabbed by the
tell-tale zephyrs, and for that reason it is somewhat
doubtful. Some old ladies were of opinion, at the
time, that it was conveyed by actions, rather than
words, and one went so far as to insinuate that it was
delivered in a kiss. Much may be said on both sides,
and we hold ourselves entirely uncommitted on this
point. All we know, is, that the lovers lost their way,
and were a long time before they found it again; so
that our hero, in order to beguile the tedious search,
was obliged to tell over all the particulars of his last
adventure, and its glorious consequences, either two
or three times; for there is here, also, some diversity
of opinion on this subject. We can only pledge ourselves
to what we know, which is, that whatever endearments
were mutually given and received, were
such, and such only, as became a modest maiden, and
an ardent lover, looking forward, with happy certainty,
to a speedy union of hands, as well as hearts. None
will doubt this, except those incapable of following
their example.
-- 170 --
CHAPTER XII.
A STOUT CAROUSAL, INTERRUPTED BY UNWELCOME VISITERS,
AND CONCLUDED BY A DESSERT OF BOILED LOBSTERS—THE
UNHEARD-OF EXPLOITS OF GENERAL TINKERMAN AND LIEUTENANT
FLASHFIRE—MARRIAGES, DEATHS, AND FAREWELL
EULOGIES.
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
“Tinker,” said the old continental, after the departure
of his daughter—“Tinker—or to ennoble thy calling,
and render thee worthy of the high honour I intend
thee, silversmith—or if you aspire still higher,
goldsmith—you shall dine with me to-day. You have
brought good news, and the bearer of glad tidings
should always be made welcome. You shall dine
with the hero of Ticonderoga, eat, drink, and be merry,
or die the death of a flincher. I have that in my cellar,
that will inspire an old pewter spoon to twinkle
like silver. What say you, tinker? I mean goldsmith—
shall we be merry, roaring merry—hey?”
“With all my heart, colonel; but my dress—my
outward and visible man is rather inglorious to sit
down in your company. I have left all my wardrobe
at home, and am rather out at the elbows, you see.”
“Yes, and your face—meaning no offence—is none
of the cleanest; but that may be easily remedied.
Let me see—aye, that will do. I have a suit of
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regimentals, which I wore in the old French war, and
never mean to put on again, for I don't much stomach
the red waistcoat and breeches, just now. They are
not much the worse for wear, only a little moth-eaten.”
“Oh! never mind, colonel, they'll pass for bullet
holes.”
“Well, I'll make you a present of them, on this glorious
occasion. But, now I think of it, did you ever
hear of my carrying Pine's bridge sword in hand?”
“Never, colonel.”
“Well, I'll tell you that story at dinner. You shall
wear my uniform; and that you may be worthy of
the honour, I'll promote you. You shall be General
Tinkerman. What say you, old gold?”
“I say aye, colonel, only I shall then be your commanding
officer. How will that answer? I'll make
you drink like a fish, depend upon it.”
“Thunder and Mars! no, I must be commander in
mine own house. But we will not quarrel about rank,
as some of the militia officers did at old Ti; I'll tell
you that story at dinner. But come, general—go and
dress yourself, while I dig up the creature.”
“Why, colonel, are we to dine on potatoes, that you
talk of digging up our dinner?”
“Potatoes! potatoes be — no, general, I mean old
stuff imported in Noah's Ark, with a pedigree three
times as long as a full blooded racer. I buried it in the
cellar, to keep it out of the way of the red coats, who
would smell it above ground. I had a case of it at old
Ti, and whenever I wanted to do anything desperate,
always charged myself with a full bottle. It made me
fight like a catamount. But come along, general.”
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In good time the colonel appeared with the creature,
and General Tinkerman in his old colonial uniform,
consisting of a blue coat, scarlet waistcoat and breeches,
edged with silver lace, a little cocked hat, and a
rusty sword at his side. These were reinforced by an
old pair of military boots, which had no fellowship
with the breeches, for General Tinkerman, be it known,
was a tall, raw-boned figure, and the colonel square
and stumpy. The breeches absolutely declined to
cover his knee-pan; and the boots just reached the
calves of his legs, leaving, what the learned call, a
hiatus in manuscriptus between them; to hide which,
the general had ingeniously made use of his leather
apron, all stratagems being allowed in war. The old
continental was delighted with his appearance, and
they sat down to dinner, where they remained some
time better employed than in talking. At length the
colonel said:
“General, you look like a veteran. One would suppose
you were born a field-officer.”
“And so I was, colonel. I was born on the field of
battle. My father was an illustrious corporal, and my
mother a dispenser of spiritual comfort to valiant soldiers.
You see, I eat fire by instinct.”
“Drink, you mean, general. I reverence a soldier,
let him be born where he will. But come, Thunder
and Mars! you don't drink—you don't honour your
father and mother. And yet, now I look at you, faith,
you seem to be rather ticklish in the saddle. Zounds!
how you see-saw about, general!”
“No, I don't—no I don't, colonel. I'm as steady as
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a steeple. It's you that begin to be top-heavy,
colonel.”
“Me! Thunder and Mars! it would take two dozen
such fellows as you to force me out of the perpendicular.
Come, fill a bumper, and I'll give you a sentiment.
Fill, I say, to the brim, and we'll drink supernaculem.”
“Well, general, with all my heart, here's the great
General Sup—Super—never mind, here he goes.”
“What an illiterate blockhead you are, tinker—I
mean general. Supernaculem means—it means—
hip—here's luck, general.”
“Good! I must drink that standing, and in solemn
silence. There's nothing I reverence like luck. An
ounce of luck is worth a pound of understanding.”
“A pound of pewter spoons, you mean—hey, tinker?
But drink, valiant Vulcan, drink, I say!”
“Why, colonel, it seems to me you have a queer
lot of acquaintance. General Super—what d'ye call
'em? and General Vulcan—why, I never heard of them
before.”
“Not Vulcan! why he is the friend and patron of
all tinkers, blacksmiths, and whitesmiths, since the
time of Tubal Cain, and before, for aught I know. But
drink—drink, I say! standing, sitting, or lying, drink,
I say! I'll give you a bumper for every spoon you've
run, since you were cradled on the field of glory.
Here's to the memory of the immortal Wolfe!”
“Standing!” cried the general.
“Standing!” echoed the colonel, both rising with no
small difficulty, the creature now beginning to operate.
“Bravo! Thunder and Mars! general, one would
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think you had just come out of a long drought. You
drink like a sand hill, and roll about like an empty
hogshead in a high sea. Steady—steady—you old
rusty horn spoon.”
“I roll? Damme, colonel, I'll cashier you for insulting
your superior officer! I'm as sober as a deacon,
but you—you go round like a big spinning-wheel,
and make such a humming I can hardly hear myself
speak. But talking of humming, what say you to a
song, most noble continental?”
“Oh! by all means, general—tol, lol, de rol! `Why,
soldiers, why;' I could find in my heart to strike up a
stave myself, if I could only remember a song or a
tune. But come, general, give us a ranting roaring
song, about love and murder.”
Hereupon, the general began to tune his pipes, and
make most villainous wry faces, perfectly original with
him, for to the best of our knowledge he had never
seen an opera singer in all his life.
“Fa, sol, la—hem—la, la, la—hem—hah—I've got
a terrible cold. Fa, sol, la—hem!”
“Get on, and don't sit there cackling like a Dutch
guinea-hen!”
“Fa, sol, la—ah! yes, now I have found the right
pitch at last.”
“Thunder and Mars! pitch away, then, head foremost.”
“'Twas in the old French war, they say,
At the siege of Ticonderoga—”
“Ah! yes, I remember, I was there,” mumbled the
colonel to himself.
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“When the continental army lay
With cold almost quite froze-a.”
“Yes, yes, it was cold enough, I remember; one of
the sentinels had his fingers froze fast to his musket—
um—um,” and the old continental began to nod.
“Full fifty bold Americans,
With hearts that never fail'd them,
Were carousing it with flowing cans,
When the enemy assail'd 'em.”
“How do you like it, colonel?”
“Capital!—first-rate, general! `Why, soldiers,
why—”'
“Surrender, now, all you Yankee crew,
Said the captain bold that did lead 'em;
Said the Yankee boys, surrender you,
With that they up and treed them.
“They fought full sixteen years and more—”
“That's a lie!” muttered the colonel.
“I meant sixteen hours, colonel—
“They fought full sixteen hours or more,
From sunset to next morning,
Says the Yankee boys, I swow and snore—”
Here, the colonel, who had gradually fallen asleep
in his chair, suiting the action to the word, began to
snore most lustily.
“Why, colonel, have you no more manners than to
join chorus in the middle of a verse? He sleeps like
an alderman at afternoon service.”
The colonel heard not this expostulation, but
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continued his nap and his accompaniment, which had all
the various modulations of an organ, with the newly
invented stops. Sometimes it rolled up in a lofty diapason,
and then suddenly sunk into thorough bass;
sometimes it seemed whistling through a quill, and
anon it burst forth with such stupendous and transcendant
exuberance, as to threaten the total disruption
of the instrument itself. Its variety was inexhaustible;
its transitions, sometimes gentle and insinuating,
at others abrupt and ferocious; and occasionally
it sent forth a long, lingering, Alexandrine
note, that gradually dwindled away like a distant expiring
echo. Its variety was, indeed, inexhaustible,
and as the colonel seemed in no haste to finish the
concert, the general, it being now dark, reclined back
in his chair, and soon accompanied him in his visit to
the land of Nod, as well as in his music. Nor were
they in the least disturbed by Mingo bringing in candles.
From this harmonious repose, the general, who, as
he affirmed, always slept with one eye open, was
roused by the unceremonious intrusion of a party of
red coats, consisting of some half dozen, who rushed
in with drawn swords, crying out, “Surrender, you
rebel rascals, surrender!” The colonel, partly between
sleeping and waking, being still inspired by the
creature, exclaimed, at hearing the word rebels—
“Thunder and Mars! who talks of rebels? D—n
the red coats, d—n the tories, and most emphatically
d—n the Yagers! Down with them, boys; huzza
for old Ti!”
“What's that you say, you old rebel scoundrel?”
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said the commanding officer, “we'll teach you another
tune presently.”
During this brief colloquy, the tinker had mounted
his cocked hat, and ensconcing himself behind the table
in order to hide his leather apron, cried out in a
most magisterial tone—
“Rebel scoundrel! Is that the way you speak to a
gentleman under my protection, and of whose hospitality
I am now partaking, sir? Do you see this uniform,
sirrah? Put up your sword and troop off this
instant, or you shall run the gauntlet through the
whole British army.”
“I—I—beg pardon, sir, I—I—may I ask your honour
who I have the honour of speaking to?” said the petty
officer who led the party, taking off his hat and bowing
with great humility.
“Speaking to, sir? Know, fellow, you are speaking
to General Tinkerman, of the Trudging Heroes. Who
are you, fellow, that you don't know me?”
“I beg pardon, sir, but I—I—really, though I've
been all my life in the service, I don't think—I'm
sure I never heard your name before. You probably
served—”
“Served! Know, fellow, I never served. I always
commanded. I have had ten thousand such ragamuffins
as you under me at one time. So troop, sir, troop,
I say, or I'll have you tried by a drum-head court-martial,
and shot for disobedience of orders before you
can say your prayers.”
During this lofty harangue, General Tinkerman
had imprudently advanced from behind his entrenchment,
so that he exposed himself not to the fire, but
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the reconnoisance of the enemy, who detected his
leather apron. The crest-fallen officer, not recollecting
that particular uniform, began to see through the
deception. Advancing, and lifting up the unlucky
garment, he cried out—
“Why, general, what's this? You must be a freemason,
as well as a field-officer. Pray, what corps do
you belong to? Here, my men, take the general into
custody, and mind he don't cut all your throats.”
Accordingly they laid hold of the general with such
loud shouts of laughter, that they at length fairly roused
the colonel, who, yawning, and rubbing his eyes.
mumbled out—
“Hey! yaw—w—w—why tinker, you laugh double.
You seem as merry as a cricket. Well, to it again, my
son. Another glass of the stuff, and we'll drink confusion
to King George, and all his rascally red coats.”
“You will, will you?” said the officer. “Tinker!
and so, sir, you are a general, sir. You've commanded
ten thousand such ragamuffins as me. You'll make
us run the gauntlet before the whole army, will you?
You'll try us by a drum-head court-martial, and hang
us before we can say our prayers, will you?” And he
turned the tinker round and round, to the infinite diversion
of his comrades. The colonel, who was now
wide awake, if not duly sober, gradually came to his
recollection, and gazing around him, at length asked:
“Why, what is all this? Why, Thunder and Mars!
who are you, and what business have you here, hey?”
“We'll soon let you know, old gentleman. You
have lately become known at head-quarters for one
of the most malignant old rebels in the whole county,
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and I am sent here to gallant you to the city, where
you will stay till you learn to cry God save the king!”
“I'll be shot first!” said the colonel.
“Well, we shall see. But come, my men, here is
wine, I see—fill a bumper to King George, and may
all the rebels be hanged! Why, zounds! where did
you get this wine, old dog? It is fit for the king. But
you have not done honour to the toast; come, sir, drink,
I entreat you!” And he bowed low in derision.
“Well, I'll drink, because I love good wine, and I
like to make people welcome, though I must say you
have come rather unceremoniously. But I'll not drink
your toast, because I don't like it. A man has a right
to his own toast, to his own wine; so here's success to
liberty!”
“And here's God save the king—of good fellows,”
cried General Tinkerman, sinking his voice to a whisper
at the concluding part of his toast.
“Down with the old rebel!” exclaimed the officer,
“or rather up with him. I'll hang him on the spot,
unless he drinks my toast, as I am gentleman and a
Christian.”
“He'll hang a man on the spot for not drinking a
toast, to prove himself a gentleman and a Christian,”
thought the general.
The old continental resolutely refused to establish
his loyalty by drinking the king, and a halter being
procured from the stable, where they found Mingo fast
asleep, he having verified the old adage, like master,
like man, they proceeded to fasten it round the colonel's
neck by a slipping noose, to the great consternation
of the general, who began to feel a disagreeable
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sensation about the throat, and believed his turn would
come next. All things being prepared, and the toast
once more proposed, and rejected by the stout old continental
with disdain, they were proceeding seriously
to execute their purpose; and had actually raised him
on tiptoe, when, at this critical moment, our hero,
who, as before stated, having been delayed by losing
his way, approached the house, accompanied by Jane.
His attention was first attracted by seeing various
figures moving backwards and forwards past the windows;
and he had not proceeded many steps further,
when the sight of several horses tied to the paling of
the garden fence, greatly increased his alarm. He
saw that there were visiters, and a closer inspection
convinced him they were not friends, for he could distinguish
through the window, that they were offering
violence to the colonel. He hastily returned to Jane,
and in as few words as possible, informed her of the
state of things within. This information was followed
by the proposal of a plan, which was the only one that
occurred to him in this sudden emergency. He asked
if she had the resolution to play her part, and was
eagerly assured, that to save her father, she was capable
of anything. He then pulled off his coat and hat,
with which he equipped the young maiden, at the same
time giving her the necessary instructions. He next
approached the window, and dashing a pane of glass
to atoms, roared out in a voice of thunder:
“Surrender! you rascally red coats, or you are dead
men! Down with your arms this instant!”
“Surrender! you rascally red coats!” echoed Jane
from another window in the rear, while both moved
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about rapidly, making as much noise as possible, and
in every variety of tone.
They were just in the nick of time; for the officer
having allowed the colonel five minutes to say his
prayers, was just on the point of making good his
claim to the character of a gentleman and a Christian,
when the summons to surrender, which seemed to
come from fifty different quarters, brought them to a
dead pause. After a few moments of reflection, the
valiant subaltern responded:
“Who are we to surrender to?”
“To Captain Flashfire's troop of dragoons, eight
and forty strong! Deliver your arms out of the
window, or you are all dead men!”
“Down with your arms, villains!” cried Jane, “or
we'll cut the throats of every man, woman, and child,
in fifty miles round!”
“Bless my heart!” said General Tinkerman, “what
a bloodthirsty fellow that Captain Flashfire is! I tell
you what, my friends, you'd better hand out your arms
at once, or in less than fifteen minutes, you'll all be as
dead as mutton! I know him of old; if he once gets
his dander up, it's all over with you. There! there!
there! he begins again!”
“Hand out your arms this minute, or we'll blow
you all sky high!” cried John, in a terrible voice.
The officer finding such odds against him, obeyed
the summons, and the arms were handed out through
the broken window. John then entered the house,
accompanied by Captain Flashfire; and his first
act was to free the colonel, who had scarcely yet recovered
his breath, and stood staring around, half
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unconscious of what was going forward. Indeed, he had
been all but suffocated. Our hero then very courteously
addressed himself to the officer, stating that his
men had become so exasperated by the reports of the
ill-usage of their countrymen during their imprisonment
in New York, that they had sworn vengeance
against the first red coats that fell into their hands.
He could, at present, think of no other way to protect
them from their fury, than tying their hands behind
them. His men were on the whole generous fellows,
and would never think of doing violence to defenceless
prisoners. The officer at once assented, at the same
time begging his protection; and additional halters
being procured, the valiant commander and his party
had their arms well secured behind their backs.
John having thus released the colonel, and secured
his prisoners, proceeded to interrogate them, as to who
they were, whence they came, and the object of their
coming; in the course of which he detected his old
friend Boshin, who had retired into a corner, and seemed
by no means desirous of exciting observation. His
blood boiled at sight of the caitiff, and he called out in
a loud voice, “Case Boshin, stand forth!” Case crawled
out, trembling like a detected criminal.
“How come you by that uniform?”
“I have enlisted in the regiment of loyal Americans.”
“Since when?”
“About three months ago.”
“Liar and rascal! Within less than that time you
robbed, and almost murdered my grandfather. Do
you remember the ghost of the bridge? You see I
know all about it. You have now come here to rob
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and murder in the disguise of a uniform, already sufficiently
disgraced by atrocities which no circumstances
can justify. I owe you two good turns for
myself, and one for my country. You did all you
could to bring me to a disgraceful death; you deprived
my poor old grandfather of his reason, and you
have deserted your country, to side with her enemies.
The day of reckoning has come, and you shall pay it
to the last farthing, as sure as you live.”
Case made no reply, but retired in dogged silence to
his corner. After some little consultation, it was decided
to confine the prisoners in the root-house, whither
they were conducted, and placed under guard of General
Tinkerman, assisted by old Mingo, who having previously
refreshed himself with a long nap, declared he could
keep awake the rest of the night, if the general would
only talk to him. The next day Mingo was despatched
with a letter to the commandant at West Point, and
the day following, the prisoners were marched under
a guard sent down for them, to that post. Here
Case, being recognised as a deserter, suffered the severest
penalty of military law, and the others were
treated according to their demerits.
The colonel having by this time sufficiently recovered
his breath and recollection, recognised his deliverer,
whom he welcomed with all the warmth of grateful
affection. After which, he inquired for Captain
Flashfire, who stood ensconced behind General Tinkerman,
that worthy having left Mingo on guard, while
he came to light his pipe, as he said, though the truth
is, he was anxious to see what would be the end of
this affair.
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“I beg pardon, sir,” said John, in answer to the colonel's
inquiry, “permit me to introduce Captain Flashfire,
as brave an officer as ever drew trigger. He is bullet
proof. He fears no man living, I'll say that for him.
Lieutenant Flashfire, Colonel Hammond; a gallant
officer who distinguished himself at the siege of Ticonderoga,
in the old French war.”
“Your hand, Captain Flashfire,” said the old continental.
“Thunder and Mars! it feels like velvet!
Sir, you have saved my life from these hang-dogs, and
mine is at your service. Permit me to bid you welcome,
and to assure you my house, and everything in
it is yours,” and the colonel bowed profoundly, with
the halter still hanging about his neck.
“A trifle—a trifle, colonel,” replied the captain,
disguising his voice a little. “Don't mention it—don't
mention it, I beg of you. It isn't the first time by a
hundred. I generally kill half a dozen men of a morning,
and quiet my conscience by saving as many in
the afternoon.”
“The d—I you do!” He talks like a militia-man
who has looked the enemy in the face across a river,
thought the colonel. “But come, captain, pull off
your coat, which, by the way—you will excuse me,
sir—looks as if it had outgrown you; and your hat,
which—hem! A glass of wine, sir. Permit me—I drink
your good health, and yours, John, and yours, General
Tinkerman. But now I think of it, where is the rest
of your company? Let them come in, there is room
and welcome for them all.”
“You see all our company, sir; Captain Flashfire
and I,” said John.
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“What, hey! Thunder and Mars! a ruse, as the
French used to say at old Ti. You young rascal, you
learnt that of me. Isn't it so? I'll never forgive you,
if it isn't a ruse.”
“Something like it, colonel. But, captain, suppose
you pull off your hat and coat, and make yourself
at home. No one has a better right.”
“I can deny you nothing;” and the captain complied.
“What, hey! why, sure! Why, you impudent baggage,
are you not ashamed of campaigning about in
men's clothes? Who made you a captain?”
“My commander, here. I would be made anything,
to assist in saving the life of my dear father.”
“Ah! a chip of the old block. And so you two
alone have saved me from these scoundrels. John,”
added the colonel, with dignified solemnity, “John, I
owe my life to you, and—and Captain Flashfire.
You have preserved me from a death unworthy of a
soldier. In what way can I repay the obligation?
Zounds! I have it. I'll give you half my estate.”
John shook his head.
“No? well, what say you to the whole?”
Again John shook his head.
“Why, you unreasonable dog! Well, I have nothing
else to give, except what you once rejected. I am
too proud of myself and my daughter, to send her begging
for a husband, especially since I hear you are
grown such a great man all at once; thanked by General
Washington; thanked by Congress; voted a medal,
and all that. Thunder and Mars! I suppose you
will look down on the old continental colonel and his
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daughter, now!”—and the colonel began to wax
wroth.
“Ask your daughter,” said John.
“What! has he made the amen honourable, as the
French used to say at old Ti? Has he gone down
on his knees, acknowledged himself a puppy, and
begged your pardon with his nose in the dirt?”
“He has given me satisfactory reasons, sir.”
“And what were they?”
“I can't remember them,” replied Jane, blushing.
“Ah—well—um—I suppose it is all right. Come
hither, Captain Flashfire;—ah! you little vixen!
Here, John, take her, you puppy; but mind you keep
a tight rein. Thunder and fire! how she strutted and
swore! Surrender, this instant, or we'll blow you sky
high! Surrender! you scoundrels, or we'll cut the
throats of every man, woman and child in fifty miles
round! and then she kills six men a day, and saves
the lives of as many more to quiet her conscience!
But come to my arms, that I may kiss you once more
before I give you away. There, take her, John, with
all my heart, and all my money—witness, General
Tinkerman.”
“I do,” said the general, “and may I have the running
of all the pewter spoons.”
“Silver, you old empty tin canister! They shall
have nothing but silver in the house! Hey! Johnny,
my son?”
“Silver, pewter, horn or wood, all one, sir. To me,
her only treasure is herself; silver and gold are nothing
to such a heart, enshrined in such a casket.”
“Hey diddle, diddle! the puppy grows poetical. But
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take her, John, such as heaven made her. I give her
to you as the best of daughters, and such ever make
the best of wives. I give her to you as the reward of
patriotism and fidelity.”
The wedding took place shortly afterwards; but the
consummation of his love, did not subdue our hero's
patriotism. He remained at home during the remainder
of the winter; but joined the American army at
the commencement of the campaign, with the consent
of Jane, who said with tears in her eyes, and blushes
on her cheeks, “I know it is your duty to go, and mine
to part with you, though it cuts me to the heart. But
I never wish to be the wife of any but a freeman, or
the mother of slaves.” He served during the remainder
of the war; performed many hardy exploits, was
present at the closing scene at York Town; and returned
home with the rank of major, to enjoy the
blessings of that liberty for which he had so faithfully laboured,
and so severely suffered. Nor should it be
forgotten that his two companions, Isaac and David,
attended the wedding, where the latter made the bride
not a little jealous by joking the bridegroom about the
beautiful fortune-teller. The two equally shared with
John the gratitude of their country, and lived long
after the conclusion of the war, in credit and renown.
The old couple at the stone house, did not, however,
live to see and share the blessings of freedom. They
died within a few weeks of each other, and slid out
of the world so easily, that their last sleep came on
like the hour of balmy rest, after a long summer day
of toil. The last words of the old man were—“Yes,
yes, a tory is a highway robber.” They were quietly
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borne to the grave, where they lay side by side, awaiting
the unfolding of that awful mystery which the living
never penetrate, and the dead never disclose.
General Tinkerman—once a general, always a general—
survived the war, during which he had saved
money enough to set up in business in New York, in
the pewter and tin line. Being a long-sighted man,
he purchased a swamp just at the outskirts of the
city, which in process of time became at length so
valuable, that the general deserted his caste, and went
over to the aristocracy. The more the price of the
swamp rose, the more weighty became his influence,
both in politics, morals, and religion, and his opinions
concerning public measures and the weather, were
decisive. He bore his honours as if he had inherited
them from the time of William the Conqueror, and it
was exceedingly edifying to hear him dilate on the
“mushroom nobility,” or the intolerable impudence of
tag-rag and bobtail democracy, as he termed the good
people, who had fought for their country while he was
running pewter spoons and selling pins and needles.
To sustain his pretensions, he selected for his carriage
a great coat of arms, of sixteen quarterings, which he
found in an old book of heraldry in the city library,
and, in short, became one of the granite pillars of the
aristocracy of the great emporium. Finally, when he
died—for all men must die—the newspapers of the
time solemnly announced, that “A great man had
fallen in Israel.”
Artemas Day, in like manner, lived to a good old
age, doubtless by virtue of his devotion to dried apples
and molasses and water, and became a richer
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man than his neighbour, the old continental, by the
aid of hard bargains and labour-saving machines.
Such was the rigid propriety of his outward man, that
it was taken for granted by those who never had anything
to do with him, that the inward man must be
equally unexceptionable. He was consequently highly
respected abroad, though it must be confessed he was
marvellously despised nearer home, thereby verifying
the saying, that “prophets have no honour in their
own country.” The little mischievous boys of the
neighbourhood, those shrewd judges of human character,
seldom missed an opportunity of doing him an
ill turn, by robbing his orchard and flouting his spareribbed
horse, as he rode along with the resignation of
a martyr. The last act of his life which has come to
our knowledge, was his contriving, by some means or
other, to get a pension for his revolutionary services,
which consisted in holding friendly intercourse with
the enemy, and taking a protection for his person and
property. There was a sermon preached at his funeral,
in which he was greatly exalted, and Zoroaster
Fisk tasked his genius in works of fiction so successfully,
that neither man, woman, nor innocent babe, in
all the churchyard, left behind them such a character
for piety, integrity, and benevolence.
Our heroine, in the opinion of those who best knew
her, made a wife of at least a hundred thousand,
though it is traditionary that she paid such exclusive
attention to her first-born, that both John and the colonel
were sometimes a little jealous. It was considered
somewhat remarkable that she dressed plainer as she
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grew older, and that her husband actually thought she
became handsomer every day, although she had a bad
habit of giving him advice which cannot be sufficiently
reprehended. She was pious, without being priestridden,
and never went to a night meeting but once,
when she caught a great cold, which the colonel swore
by Thunder and Mars, was a judgment upon her. Her
greatest fault was a blameable indifference to the concerns
of her neighbours, into which she never pried
except with a view of relieving their necessities, so
that never was woman more deficient in that knowledge
which concerns everybody but ourselves. With
this exception, we would venture to pronounce her
perfect, had she not once nearly fainted at a proposition
of John to apprentice his third son to a trade, instead
of making him a lawyer.
The old continental, after the marriage of his daughter,
abandoned all his contemplated improvements and
labour-saving machines, having got a new set of playthings
in the person of divers little grandchildren,
whom he did his best to spoil, and then swore by
Thunder and Mars, it was all owing to the weak indulgence
of the mother. John found him a very
amusing companion of evenings, only he told the stories
of old Ti and Pine's bridge rather too often. But
to do the good man justice, he made all the amends in
his power, by adding, altering, or diminishing something
at every repetition, thereby producing a perpetual
variety. Old Mingo sometimes took the liberty
of setting him right, but such is the ingratitude of
mankind that all he got for his pains was either a
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sharp reprimand, or a provoking insinuation that the
poor old negro had outlived his recollection. He not
unfrequently scolded Jane, and generally when she
least deserved it. This, her husband did not much
relish, either because he thought it unmerited, or that
this was his exclusive privilege. The old continental
lived to a patriarchal age, without ever suffering any
severe pain, or actual disease, except on one occasion,
when he nearly died of laughter on reading in the
newspapers a pompous eulogium on that pillar of aristocracy,
General Tinkerman, and that a great man had
fallen in Israel. Towards the close of his life, his
daughter succeeded in persuading him, that it was
unbecoming his years to deal so much in Thunder and
Mars, and he promised to do his best to abstain. The
good gentleman succeeded during three days, by
scarcely opening his mouth at all, but on the morning
of the fourth, it was observed that he broke out
again, and made himself ample amends for his abstinence.
Our happy trio—for happy they were, notwithstanding
the little rubs of domestic life—lived to enjoy the
blessings of that freedom, for the attainment of which,
each in their appropriate sphere, had paid a just proportion
of anxieties and suffering. They lived to see
their country increasing in prosperity and happiness,
beyond all former examples; to see it expanding in
extent, growing in vigour, and giving new force to the
principles, new sanctity to the name of liberty, by exhibiting
an example of its glorious consequences.
While enjoying the present, and anticipating still
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greater triumphs in the future, they often reverted to
the past, and recalled to mind the hardships and sufferings
of the revolutionary struggle, John would often
exclaim—“It was the Price of Liberty!”
THE END.
