James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Come, worthy children of America!” said Lawton, “follow, and receive your reward.”

  The gang eagerly accepted the invitation, and followed the captain towards the quarters assigned to his troop. Dunwoodie paused a moment, from reluctance to triumph over a fallen foe, before he proceeded.

  “You have already been tried, Harvey Birch, and the truth has proved you to be an enemy, too dangerous to the liberties of America, to be suffered to live.”

  “The truth!” echoed the pedlar starting, and raising himself in a manner that disregarded the weight of his pack.

  “Ay, the truth—you were charged with loitering near the continental army, to gain intelligence of its movements, and by communicating them to the enemy, to enable him to frustrate the intentions of Washington.”

  “Will Washington say so, think you?”

  “Doubtless he would—even the justice of Washington condemns you.”

  “No—no—no,” cried the pedlar, in a voice, and with a manner that startled Dunwoodie; “Washington can see beyond the hollow views of pretended patriots. Has he not risked his all on the cast of a die?—if a gallows is ready for me, was there not one for him also? no—no—no, Washington would never say, ‘lead him to a gallows.’”

  “Have you any thing, wretched man, to urge to the commander in chief, why you should not die?” said the major, recovering from the surprise created by the manner of the other.

  Birch trembled, for violent emotions were contending in his bosom. His face assumed the ghastly paleness of death, and his hand drew a box of tin from the folds of his shirt—he opened it, shewing by the act, that it contained a small piece of paper; on this document his eye was for an instant fixed—he had already held it towards Dunwoodie, when suddenly withdrawing his hand, he exclaimed—

  “No—it dies with me—I know the conditions of my service, and will not purchase life with their forfeiture—it dies with me.”

  “Deliver that paper, and you may possibly find favour,” cried Dunwoodie, expecting a discovery of importance to the cause.

  “It dies with me,” repeated Birch, a flush passing over his pallid features, and lighting them with extraordinary brilliancy.

  “Seize the traitor!” cried the major, “and wrest the secret from his hands.”

  The order was immediately obeyed; but the movements of the pedlar were too quick; in an instant he swallowed the paper. The officers paused in astonishment; but the surgeon cried eagerly—

  “Hold him, while I administer an emetic.”

  “Forbear,” said Dunwoodie, beckoning him back with his hand; “if his crime is great, so will his punishment be heavy.”

  “Lead on,” cried the pedlar, dropping his pack from his shoulders, and advancing towards the door with a manner of incomprehensible dignity.

  “Whither?” asked Dunwoodie in amazement.

  “To the gallows.”

  “No,” said the major, recoiling in horror at his own justice. “My duty requires that I order you to be executed; but surely not so hastily—take until nine to-morrow to prepare for the awful change.”

  Dunwoodie whispered his orders in the ear of a subaltern, and motioned to the pedlar to withdraw. The interruption caused by this scene prevented further enjoyment around the table, and the officers dispersed to their several places of rest. In a short time the only noise to be heard was the heavy tread of the sentinel, as he paced the frozen ground, in front of the Hotel Flanagan.

  Chapter XVII

  “—there are, whose changing lineaments

  Express each guileless passion of the breast,

  Where Love and Hope and tender-hearted Pity,

  Are seen reflected, as from a mirror’s face—

  But cold experience can veil these hues

  With looks, invented, shrewdly to encompass

  The cunning purposes of base deceit.”

  Duo.

  * * *

  THE OFFICER to whose keeping Dunwoodie had committed the pedlar, transferred his charge to the custody of the regular sergeant of the guard. The gift of Captain Wharton had not been lost on the youthful lieutenant, and a certain dancing motion that had taken possession of objects before his eyes, gave him warning of the necessity of recruiting nature by sleep. After admonishing the non-commissioned guardian of Harvey to omit no watchfulness in securing the prisoner, the youth wrapped himself in his cloak, and, stretched on a bench before a fire, soon found the repose he needed. A rude shed extended the whole length of the rear of the building, and from off one of its ends had been partitioned a small apartment, that was intended as a repository for many of the lesser implements of husbandry. The lawless times had, however, occasioned its being stript of every thing of value, and the searching eyes of Betty Flanagan selected this spot, on her arrival, as the store house for her moveables, and a sanctuary for her person. The spare arms and baggage of the corps had also been deposited here; and the united treasures were placed under the eye of the sentinel who paraded the shed as a guardian of the rear of the head quarters. A second soldier, who was stationed near the house to protect the horses of the officers, could command a view of the outside of the apartment, and, as it was without window, or outlet of any kind excepting its door, the considerate sergeant thought this the most befitting place in which to deposite his prisoner, until the moment of his execution. Several inducements urged Sergeant Hollister to this determination, among which was the absence of the washerwoman, who lay before the kitchen fire, dreaming that the corps was attacking a party of the enemy, and mistaking the noise that proceeded from her own nose for the bugles of the Virginians sounding the charge. Another was the peculiar opinions that the veteran entertained of life and death, and by which he was distinguished in the corps as a man of most exemplary piety and holiness of life. The sergeant was more than fifty years of age, and for half that period he had borne arms. The constant recurrence of sudden deaths before his eyes had produced an effect on him differing greatly from that, which was the usual moral consequence of such scenes, and he had become not only the most steady, but the most trust-worthy soldier in his troop.—Captain Lawton had rewarded his fidelity by making him its orderly.

  Followed by Birch, the sergeant proceeded in silence to the door of the intended prison, and throwing it open with one hand, he held a lantern with the other to light the pedlar to his prison. Seating himself on a cask, that contained some of Betty’s favorite beverage, the sergeant motioned to Birch to occupy another, in the same manner. The lantern was placed on the floor, when the dragoon, after looking his prisoner steadily in the face, observed—

  “You look as if you would meet death like a man, and I have brought you to a spot where you can tranquilly arrange your thoughts, and be quiet and undisturbed.”

  “’Tis a fearful place to prepare for the last change in!” said Harvey, gazing around his little prison with a vacant eye.

  “Why, for the matter of that,” returned the veteran, “it can reckon but little, in the great account, where a man parades his thoughts for the last review, so that he finds them fit to pass the muster of another world.—I have a small book here which I make it a point to read a little in, whenever we are about to engage, and I find it a great strength’ner, in time of need.” While speaking he took a bible from his pocket and offered it to the pedlar. Birch received the volume with habitual reverence, but there was an abstracted air about him, and a wandering of the eye, that induced his companion to think alarm was getting the mastery of the pedlar’s feelings—accordingly, he proceeded in what he conceived to be the offices of consolation.

  “If any thing lies heavy on your mind, now is the best time to get rid of it—if you have done wrong to any one, I promise you, on the word of an honest dragoon, to lend you a helping hand to see them righted.”

  “There are few who have not done so,” said the pedlar, turning his vacant gaze once mor
e on his companion.

  “True—’tis natural to sin—but it sometimes happens that a man does, what at other times he may be sorry for.—One would not wish to die with any very heavy sin on his conscience, after all.”

  Harvey had by this time thoroughly examined the place in which he was to pass the night, and saw no means of escape. But, as hope is ever the last feeling to desert the human breast, the pedlar gave the dragoon more of his attention, fixing on his sun-burnt features such searching looks, that Sergeant Hollister lowered his eyes before the wild expression which he met in the gaze of his prisoner.

  “I have been taught to lay the burden of my sins at the feet of my saviour,” replied the pedlar.

  “Why, yes—all that is well enough,” returned the other; “but justice should be done, while there is opportunity.—There have been stirring times in this county since the war began, and many have been deprived of their rightful goods. I often times find it hard to reconcile even my lawful plunder to a tender conscience.”

  “These hands,” said the pedlar, stretching forth his meagre bony fingers, “have spent years in toil, but not a moment pilfering.”

  “It is well that it is so,” said the honest-hearted soldier; “and no doubt, you now feel it a great consolation—there are three great sins that if a man can keep his conscience clear of—why, by the mercy of God, he may hope to pass muster with the saints in Heaven—they are stealing, murdering, and desertion.”

  “Thank God!” said Birch with fervor, “I have never yet taken the life of a fellow creature.”

  “As to killing a man in lawful battle, that is no more than doing one’s duty. If the cause is wrong, the sin of such a deed you know falls on the nation, and a man receives his punishment here with the rest of the people—but murdering, in cold blood, stands next to desertion, as a crime, in the eye of God.”

  “I never was a soldier, therefore never could desert,” said the pedlar, resting his face on his hand, in a melancholy attitude.

  “Why, desertion consists of more than quitting your colours, though that is certainly the worst kind; a man may desert his country, in the hour of need.”

  Birch buried his face in both his hands, and his whole frame shook; the sergeant regarded him closely, but good feelings soon got the better of his antipathies, and he continued more mildly—

  “But still that is a sin which I think may be forgiven if sincerely repented of; and it matters but little when or how a man dies, so that he dies like a christian and a man.—I recommend to you to say your prayers, and then to get some rest, in order that you may do both. There is no hope of your being pardoned, for Colonel Singleton has sent down the most positive orders to take your life whenever we met you. No—no—nothing can save you.”

  “You say the truth,” cried Birch. “It is now too late—I have destroyed my only safeguard. But He will do my memory justice at least.”

  “What safeguard?” asked the sergeant, with awakened curiosity.

  “’Tis nothing,” replied the pedlar, recovering his natural manner, and lowering his face to avoid the earnest look of his companion.

  “And who is he?”

  “No one,” added Harvey, anxious to say no more.

  “Nothing and no one, can avail but little now,” said the sergeant, rising to go; “lay yourself on the blanket of Mrs. Flan­a­gan, and get a little sleep—I will call you betimes in the morning, and from the bottom of my soul, I wish I could be of some service to you, for I dislike greatly to see a man hung up like a dog.”

  “Then you might save me from this ignominious death,” said Birch, springing on his feet, and catching the dragoon by the arm—“And, oh! what will I not give you in reward.”

  “In what manner?” asked the sergeant, looking at him in surprise.

  “See,” said the pedlar, producing several guineas from his person; “these are nothing to what I will give you, if you will assist me to escape.”

  “Were you the man whose picture is on the gold, I would not listen to such a crime,” said the trooper, throwing the money on the floor with contempt. “Go—go—poor wretch, and make your peace with God; for it is he only that can be of service to you now.”

  The sergeant took up the lantern, and, with some indignation in his manner, he left the pedlar to sorrowful meditations on his approaching fate. Birch sunk, in momentary despair, on the pallet of Betty, while his guardian proceeded to give the necessary instructions to the sentinels, for his safe keeping.

  Hollister concluded his injunctions to the man in the shed, by saying, “your life will depend on his not escaping. None enter or quit the room ’till morning.”

  “But,” said the trooper, “my orders are, to let the washerwoman pass in and out, as she please.”

  “Well let her then, but be careful that this wily pedlar does not get out in the folds of her petticoats.” He then continued his walk, giving similar orders to each of the sentinels, near the spot.

  For some time after the departure of the sergeant, silence prevailed within the solitary prison of the pedlar, until the dragoon at his door heard his loud breathings, which soon rose into the regular cadence of one in a deep sleep. The man continued walking his post, musing on an indifference to life which could allow nature its customary rest, even on the threshold of the grave. Harvey Birch had, however, been a name too long held in detestation by every man in the corps, to suffer any feelings of commiseration to mingle with these reflections of the sentinel; for notwithstanding the consideration and kindness manifested by the sergeant, there probably was not another man of his rank in the whole party who would have discovered equal benevolence to the prisoner, or who would not have imitated the veteran in rejecting the bribe, although probably from a less worthy motive. There was something of disappointed vengeance in the feelings of the man who watched the door of the room, on finding his prisoner enjoying a sleep of which he himself was deprived, and at his exhibiting such obvious indifference to the utmost penalty that military rigor could inflict on all his treason to the cause of liberty and America. More than once he felt prompted to disturb the repose of the pedlar by taunts and revilings, but the discipline he was under, and a secret sense of shame at the brutality of the act, held him in subjection.

  His meditations were, however, soon interrupted by the appearance of the washerwoman, who came staggering through the door that communicated with the kitchen, muttering execrations against the servants of the officers who, by their waggery, had disturbed her slumbers before the fire. The sentinel understood enough of her maledictions to comprehend the case, but all his efforts to enter into conversation with the enraged woman were useless, and he suffered her to enter her room without explaining that it contained another inmate. The noise of her huge frame falling on the bed, was succeeded by a silence that was soon interrupted by the renewed respiration of the pedlar, and within a few minutes Harvey continued to breathe aloud as if no interruption had occurred. The relief arrived at this moment. The sentinel who felt nettled at the contempt of the pedlar, after communicating his orders, while he was retiring exclaimed to his successor—

  “You may keep yourself warm by dancing, John; the pedlar-spy has tuned his fiddle you hear, and it will not be long before Betty will strike up, in her turn.”

  The joke was followed by a general laugh from the party, who marched on in the performance of their duty. At this instant the door of the prison was opened, and Betty re-appeared, staggering back again towards her former quarters.

  “Stop,” said the sentinel, catching her by her clothes; “are you sure the Spy is not in your pocket?”

  “Can’t you hear the rascal snoring in my room, you dirty blackguard,” sputtered Betty, her whole frame shaking with rage, “and is it so, yee would sarve a dacent famale, that a man must be put to sleep in the room wid her, yee rapscallion.”

  “Pooh! do you mind a fellow who’s to be hanged
in the morning? you see he sleeps already; to-morrow, he’ll take a longer nap.”

  “Hands off, yee villain,” cried the washerwoman, relinquishing a small bottle that the trooper had succeeded in wresting from her. “But I’ll go to Captain Jack, and know if it’s orders to put a hang-gallows spy in my room; ay even in my widow’d bed, you tief.”

  “Silence, old Jezebel,” said the fellow with a laugh, taking the bottle from his mouth to breathe, “or you will wake the gentleman—would you disturb a man in his last sleep?”

  “I’ll awake Captain Jack, you riprobate villain, and bring him here to see me righted—he will punish yee all for imposing on a dacent widow’d body, you marauder!”

  With these words, which only extorted a laugh from the sentinel, Betty staggered round the end of the building, and made the best of her way towards the quarters of her favourite, Captain John Lawton, in search of redress. Neither the officer, nor the woman, however, appeared during the night, and nothing further occurred to disturb the repose of the pedlar, who, to the astonishment of the different sentinels, continued by his breathing, to manifest how little the gallows could affect his slumbers.

  Chapter XVIII

  “A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!—

  O wise young judge, how do I honor thee!”

  Merchant of Venice.

  * * *

  THE SKINNERS followed Captain Lawton with alacrity, towards the quarters occupied by the troop of that gentleman. The captain of dragoons had on all occasions manifested so much zeal for the cause in which he was engaged—was so regardless of personal danger when opposed to the enemy, and his stature and stern countenance contributed so much to render him terrific, that these qualities had, in some measure, procured him a reputation distinct from the corps in which he served.—His intrepidity was mistaken for ferocity, and his hasty zeal for the natural love of cruelty. On the other hand, a few acts of clemency, or more properly speaking, of discriminating justice, had with one portion of the community acquired for Dunwoodie the character of undue forbearance.—It is seldom that either popular condemnation, or popular applause, falls exactly in the quantities earned, where it is merited.