James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  The surgeon turned a vacant eye on his companion as he uttered this soliloquy, while the penetrating looks of the trooper had already discovered another pile of rocks, which jutting forward, nearly obstructed the highway that wound directly around its base.

  “What the steed cannot mount, the foot of man can overcome,” exclaimed the wary partisan. Throwing himself again from his saddle, and leaping a wall of stone, he began to ascend the hill at a place which would soon have given him a birds’ eye view of the rocks in question, together with all their crevices. This movement was no sooner made, than Lawton caught a glimpse of the figure of a man stealing rapidly from his approach, and disappearing on the opposite side of the precipice.

  “Spur—Sitgreaves—spur,” shouted the trooper, dashing over every impediment in pursuit, “and murder the villain as he flies.”

  The former part of the request was promptly complied with, and a few moments brought the surgeon in full view of a man armed with a musket, who was crossing the road, and evidently seeking the protection of the thick wood on its opposite side.

  “Stop, my friend—stop until Captain Lawton comes up, if you please,” cried the surgeon, observing him to flee with a rapidity that baffled his horsemanship. But as if the invitation contained new terrors, the footman redoubled his efforts, nor paused even to breathe, until he had reached his goal, when, turning on his heel, he discharged his musket towards the surgeon, and was out of sight in an instant. To gain the highway and throw himself into his saddle detained Lawton but a moment, and he rode to the side of his comrade just as the figure had disappeared.

  “Which way has he fled?” cried the trooper.

  “John,” said the surgeon, “am I not a non-combatant?”

  “Whither has the rascal fled?” cried Lawton, impatiently.

  “Where you cannot follow—into that wood. But I repeat, John, am I not a non-combatant?”

  The disappointed trooper perceiving that his enemy had escaped him, now turned his eyes, which were flashing with anger, upon his comrade, and gradually his muscles lost their rigid compression, his brow relaxed and his look changed from its fierce expression, to the covert laughter which so often distinguished his countenance. The surgeon sat in dignified composure on his horse; his thin body erect, and his head elevated with the indignation of one conscious of having been unjustly treated.

  “Why did you suffer the villain to escape?” demanded the captain. “Once within reach of my sabre, and I would have given you a subject for the dissecting table.”

  “’Twas impossible to prevent it,” said the surgeon, pointing to the bars, before which he had stopped his horse.—“The rogue threw himself on the other side of this fence, and left me where you see—nor would the man in the least attend to my remonstrances, or to an intimation that you wished to hold discourse with him.”

  “He was truly a discourteous rascal; but why did you not leap the fence, and compel him to a halt—you see but three of the bars are up, and Betty Flanagan could clear them, on her cow.”

  The surgeon, for the first time, withdrew his eyes from the place where the fugitive had disappeared, and turned his look on his comrade. His head, however, was not permitted to lower itself in the least, as he replied—

  “I humbly conceive, Captain Lawton, that neither Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan, nor her cow, is an example to be emulated by Doctor Archibald Sitgreaves—it would be but a sorry compliment to science to say that a Doctor of Medicine had fractured both his legs, by injudiciously striking them against a pair of bar-posts.” While speaking, the surgeon raised the limbs in question to a nearly horizontal position, an attitude which really appeared to bid defiance to any thing like a passage for himself through the defile; but the trooper, disregarding this ocular proof of the impossibility of the movement, cried hastily—

  “Here was nothing to stop you man; I could leap a platoon through, boot and thigh, without pricking with a single spur. Pshaw! I have often charged upon the bayonets of infantry, over greater difficulties than this.”

  “You will please to remember, Captain John Lawton, that I am not the riding master to the regiment—nor a drill sergeant—nor a crazy cornet—no, sir—and I speak it with a due respect for the commission of the continental Congress—nor an inconsiderate captain who regards his own life as little as that of his enemies. I am only, sir, a poor, humble man of letters, a mere Doctor of Medicine, an unworthy graduate of Edinburgh, and a surgeon of dragoons, nothing more I do assure you, Captain John Lawton.” So saying, he turned his horse’s head towards the cottage, and re-commenced his ride.

  “Ay! you speak the truth,” muttered the dragoon; “had I but the meanest rider of my troop with me, I should have taken the scoundrel, and given at least one victim to the laws. But, Archibald, no man can ride well who straddles in this manner like the Colossus of Rhodes. You should depend less on your stirrup, and keep your seat by the power of the knee.”

  “With proper deference to your experience, Captain Lawton,” returned the surgeon, “I conceive myself to be no incompetent judge of muscular action, whether in the knee, or any other part of the human frame. And although but humbly educated, I am not now to learn, that the wider the base, the more firm is the superstructure.”

  “Would you fill a highway, in this manner, with one pair of legs, when half a dozen might pass together in comfort— stretching them abroad like the scythes of the ancient chariot wheels.”

  The allusion to the practice of the ancients somewhat softened the indignation of the surgeon, and he replied with rather less hauteur—

  “You should speak with reverence of the usages of those who have gone before us, and who, however ignorant they were in matters of science, and particularly that of surgery, yet furnished many brilliant hints to our own improvements. Now, sir, I have no doubt that Galen has operated on wounds occasioned by these very scythes that you mention, although we can find no evidence of the fact in contemporary writers. Ah! they must have given dreadful injuries, and I doubt not, caused great uneasiness to the medical gentlemen of that day.”

  “Occasionally a body must have been left in two pieces, to puzzle the ingenuity of those gentry to unite. Yet venerable and learned as they were, I doubt not they did it.”

  “What! unite two parts of the human body, that have been severed by an edged instrument, to any of the purposes of animal life?”

  “That have been rent asunder by a scythe, and are united to do military duty,” said Lawton.

  “’Tis impossible—quite impossible,” cried the surgeon; “it is in vain, Captain Lawton, that human ingenuity endeavours to baffle the efforts of nature. Think, my dear sir, in this case you separate all the arteries—injure all of the intestines—sever all of the nerves and sinews, and, what is of more consequence, you”—

  “You have said enough, Dr. Sitgreaves, to convince a member of a rival school. Nothing shall ever tempt me willingly to submit to be divided in this irretrievable manner—”

  “Certes there is little pleasure in a wound which from its nature is incurable.”

  “I should think so,” said Lawton drily.

  “What do you think is the greatest pleasure in life?” asked the operator suddenly.

  “That must greatly depend on taste.”

  “Not at all,” cried the surgeon; “it is in witnessing, or rather feeling, the ravages of disease repaired by the lights of science co-operating with nature. I once broke my little finger intentionally, in order that I might reduce the fracture and watch the cure; it was only on a small scale, you know, dear John; still the thrilling sensation, excited by the knitting of the bone, aided by the contemplation of the art of man thus acting in unison with nature, exceeded any other enjoyment that I have ever experienced. Now, had it been one of the more important members, such as the leg or arm, how much greater must the pleasure have been.”

  “Or the neck,” said the
trooper; but their desultory discourse was interrupted by their arrival at the cottage of Mr. Wharton. No one appearing to usher them into an apartment, the captain proceeded to the door of the parlour, where he knew visitors were commonly received. On opening it, he paused for a moment, in admiration, at the scene within. The person of Col. Wellmere first met his eye, bending towards the figure of the blushing Sarah, with an earnestness of manner, that prevented the noise of Lawton’s entrance from being heard by either of the parties. Certain significant signs, which were embraced at a glance by the prying gaze of the trooper, at once made him a master of their secret, and he was about to retire as silently as he had advanced, when his companion, pushing himself through the passage, abruptly entered the room. Advancing instantly to the chair of Wellmere, the surgeon instinctively laid hold of his arm and exclaimed—

  “Bless me—a quick and irregular pulse—flushed cheek and fiery eye—strong febrile symptoms, and such as must be attended to.” While speaking, the doctor, who was much addicted to practising in a summary way, a weakness of most medical men in military practice, had already produced his lancet, and was making certain other indications of his intentions to proceed at once to business. But Col. Wellmere, recovering from the confusion of the surprise, arose from his seat, haughtily, and said—

  “Sir, it is the warmth of the room, that lends me the colour, and I am already too much indebted to your skill to give you any farther trouble—Miss Wharton knows that I am quite well, and I do assure you that I never felt better, or happier, in my life.”

  There was a peculiar emphasis on the latter part of this speech, that, however it might gratify the feelings of Sarah, again brought the colour to her cheeks, and Sitgreaves, as his eye followed the direction of those of his patient, did not fail to observe it.

  “Your arm, if you please, madam,” said the surgeon, advancing with a bow; “anxiety and watching have done their work on your delicate frame, and there are symptoms about you that must not be neglected.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Sarah, recovering herself with womanly pride, “the heat is oppressive, and I will retire and acquaint Miss Peyton with your presence.”

  There was but little difficulty in practising on the abstracted simplicity of the surgeon; but it was necessary for Sarah to raise her eyes to return the salutation of Lawton, as he bowed his head nearly to a level with the hand that held open the door for her passage. One look was sufficient; she was able to control her steps sufficiently to retire with dignity, but no sooner was she relieved from the presence of all observers, than she fell into a chair and abandoned herself to a feeling of mingled shame and pleasure.

  A little nettled at the contumacious deportment of the British colonel, Sitgreaves, after once more tendering services that were again rejected, withdrew to the chamber of young Singleton whither Lawton had already preceded him.

  Chapter XXI

  “Oh! Henry, when thou deign’st to sue,

  Can I thy suit withstand?

  When thou, lov’d youth, hast won my heart,

  Can I refuse my hand?”

  Hermit of Warkworth.

  * * *

  THE GRADUATE of Edinburgh found his patient rapidly improving in health, and entirely free from fever. His sister, with a cheek that was, if possible, paler than on her arrival, watched around his couch with tender care, and the ladies of the cottage had not, in the midst of their sorrows and varied emotions, forgotten to discharge the duties of hospitality. Frances felt herself impelled towards their disconsolate guest, with an interest for which she could not account, and with a force that she could not control. She had unconsciously connected the fates of Dunwoodie and Isabella in her imagination, and she felt, with the romantic ardour of a generous mind, that she was serving her former lover most, by exhibiting kindness to her he loved best. Isabella received her attentions with gratitude, but neither of them indulged in any allusions to the latent source of their uneasiness. The observation of Miss Peyton seldom penetrated beyond things that were visible, and to her the situation of Henry Wharton seemed to furnish an awful excuse for the fading cheeks and tearful eyes of her niece. If Sarah manifested less of care than her sister, still the unpractised aunt was not at a loss to comprehend the reason. Love is a holy feeling with the virtuous of the female sex, and it hallows all that comes within its influence. Although Miss Peyton mourned with sincerity over the danger which threatened her nephew, she well knew that an active campaign was not favorable to love, and the moments that were thus accidentally granted were not to be thrown away.

  Several days now passed without any interruption of the usual avocations of the inhabitants of the cottage, or the party at the “Four Corners.” The former were supporting their fortitude with the certainty of Henry’s innocence, and a strong reliance on Dunwoodie’s exertions in his behalf, and the latter waiting with impatience the intelligence that was hourly expected of a conflict, and their orders to depart. Captain Lawton, however, waited for both these events in vain. Letters from the major announced that the enemy, finding the party which was to co-operate with them, had been defeated and was withdrawn, had retired also behind the works of Fort Washington, where they continued inactive, threatening, constantly, to strike a blow in revenge for their disgrace. The trooper was enjoined to vigilance, and the letter concluded with a compliment to his honour, zeal, and undoubted bravery.

  “Extremely flattering, Major Dunwoodie,” muttered the dragoon as he threw down this epistle, and stalked across the floor to quiet his impatience. “A proper guard have you selected for this service—let me see—I have to watch over the interests of a crazy, irresolute old man, who does not know whether he belongs to us or to the enemy; four women, three of whom are well enough in themselves, but who are not immensely flattered by my society, and the fourth who, good as she is, is on the wrong side of forty—some two or three blacks—a talkative housekeeper that does nothing but chatter about gold and despisables, and signs and omens—and poor George Singleton—well a comrade in suffering has a claim on a man,—so I’ll make the best of it.”

  As he concluded this soliloquy, the trooper took a seat and began to whistle to convince himself how little he cared about the matter, when, by throwing his booted leg carelessly round, he upset the canteen that held his whole stock of brandy. The accident was soon repaired, but in replacing the wooden vessel, he observed a billet lying on the bench, on which the liquor had been placed. It was soon opened and he read—“The moon will not rise till after midnight—a fit time for deeds of darkness.” There was no mistaking the hand; it was clearly the same that had given him the timely warning against assassination, and the trooper continued, for a long time, musing on the nature of these two notices, and the motives that could induce the pedlar to favour an implacable enemy in the manner that he had latterly done. That he was a spy of the enemy Lawton knew, for the fact of his conveying intelligence to the English commander-in-chief of a party of Americans that were exposed to the enemy, was proved most clearly against him on the trial for his life. The consequences of his treason had been avoided, it is true, by a lucky order from Washington, which withdrew the regiment a short time before the British appeared to cut it off, but still the crime was the same; perhaps, thought the partisan, he wishes to make a friend of me, against the event of another capture; but, at all events, he spared my life on one occasion, and saved it on another. I will endeavour to be as generous as himself, and pray that my duty may never interfere with my feelings.

  Whether the danger, intimated in the present note, threatened the cottage or his own party, the captain was uncertain, but he inclined to the latter opinion, and determined to beware how he rode abroad in the dark. To a man in a peaceable country, and in times of quiet and order, the indifference with which the partisan regarded the impending danger, would be inconceivable. His reflections on the subject were more directed towards devising means to entrap his enemies, than to escape their mach
inations. But the arrival of the surgeon, who had been to pay his daily visit to the “Locusts,” interrupted his meditations. Sitgreaves brought an invitation from the mistress of the mansion, to Captain Lawton, desiring that the cottage might be honoured with his presence at an early hour on that evening.

  “Ha!” cried the trooper, “then they have received a letter also.”

  “I think nothing more probable,” said the surgeon; “there is a chaplain at the cottage from the Royal Army, who has come out to exchange the British wounded, and who has an order from Col. Singleton for their delivery. But a more mad project than to remove them now was never adopted.”

  “A priest, say you—is he a hard drinker—a real camp-idler—a fellow to breed a famine in a regiment?—or does he seem a man who is in earnest in his trade?”

  “A very respectable and orderly gentleman, not unreasonably given to intemperance, judging from the outward symptoms,” returned the surgeon, “and a man who really says grace in a very regular and appropriate manner.”

  “And does he stay the night?”

  “Certainly, he waits for his cartel; but hasten, John, we have but little time to waste. I will just step up and bleed two or three of the Englishmen, who are to move in the morning, in order to anticipate inflammation, and be with you immediately.”

  The gala suit of Captain Lawton was easily adjusted to his huge frame, and his companion being ready, they once more took their route towards the cottage. Roanoke had been as much benefited by a few days rest as his master, and Lawton ardently wished, as he curbed his gallant steed, on passing the well-remembered rocks, that his treacherous enemy stood before him mounted and armed as himself. But no enemy, nor any disturbance whatever interfered with their progress, and they reached the “Locusts” just as the sun was throwing his setting rays on the valley, and tinging the tops of the leafless trees with gold. It never required more than a single look, to acquaint the trooper with the particulars of every scene that was not uncommonly veiled, and the first survey that he took on entering the house, told him more than the observations of a day had put into the possession of Dr. Sitgreaves. Miss Peyton accosted him with a smiling welcome that exceeded the bounds of ordinary courtesy, and which evidently flowed more from feelings that were connected with the heart than from manner. Frances glided about, tearful, and agitated, while Mr. Wharton stood ready to receive them, decked in a suit of velvet, that would have been conspicuous in the gayest drawing-room. Col. Wellmere was in the uniform of an officer of the household troops of his prince, and Isabella Singleton sat in the parlour, clad in the habiliments of joy, but with a countenance that belied her appearance, while her brother by her side, looked with a cheek of flitting colour, and an eye of intense interest, like any thing but an invalid. As it was the third day that he had left his room, Dr. Sitgreaves, who began to stare about him in stupid wonder, forgot to reprove his patient for imprudence. Into this scene, Captain Lawton moved with all the composure and gravity of a man whose nerves were not easily discomposed by novelties. His compliments were received as graciously as they were offered, and after exchanging a few words with the different individuals present, he approached the surgeon who had withdrawn, in a kind of confused astonishment to rally his senses.