James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Oh, Miss Fanny, what dreadful times these be,” said Katy, when they paused for breath themselves; “I know’d that calamity was about to befall, ever sin the streak of blood was seen in the clouds.”

  “There has been blood upon earth, Katy, though but little is ever seen in the clouds.”

  “Not blood in the clouds!” echoed the housekeeper; “yes, that there has, often—and comets with fiery smoking tails—Didn’t people see armed men in the heavens, the year the war began? and the night before the battle of the Plains, wasn’t there thunder, like the cannon themselves?—Ah! Miss Fanny, I’m fearful that no good can follow rebellion against the Lord’s anointed!”

  “These events are certainly dreadful,” returned Frances, “and enough to sicken the stoutest heart—But what can be done, Katy?—Gallant and independent men are unwilling to submit to oppression; and I am fearful that such scenes are but too common in war.”

  “If I could but see any thing to fight about,” said Katy, renewing her walk as the young lady proceeded, “I shouldn’t mind it so much—’twas said the king wanted all the tea for his own family, at one time; and then again, that he meant the colonies should pay over to him all their earnings.—Now this is matter enough to fight about—for I’m sure that no one, however he may be lord or king, has a right to the hard earnings of another.—Then it was all contradicted, and some said Washington wanted to be king himself, so that between the two, one doesn’t know which to believe.”

  “Believe neither—for neither is true. I do not pretend to understand, myself, all the merits of this war, Katy; but to me it seems unnatural, that a country like this should be ruled by another so distant as England.”

  “So I have heard Harvey say to his father, that is dead and in his grave,” returned Katy, approaching nearer to the young lady, and lowering her voice.—“Many is the good time that I’ve listened to them talking, when all the neighbourhood was asleep; and such conversations, Miss Fanny, that you can have no idea on!—Well, to say the truth, Harvey was a mystified body, and he was like the winds in the good book—no one could tell whence he came, or whither he went.”

  Frances glanced her eye at her companion with an apparent desire to hear more.

  “There are rumours abroad relative to the character of Harvey,” she said, “that I should be sorry were true.”

  “’Tis a disparagement every word on’t,” cried Katy, vehemently; “Harvey had no more dealings with Belzebub than you, or I had. I’m sure if Harvey had sold himself, he would take care to be better paid; though, to speak the truth, he was always a wasteful and disregardful man.”

  “Nay, nay,” returned the smiling Frances—“I have no such injurious suspicion of him; but has he not sold himself to an earthly prince, one too much attached to the interests of his native island to be always just to this country?”

  “To the king’s majesty!” replied Katy. “Why, Miss Fanny, your own brother, that is in gaol, serves king George.”

  “True,” said Frances, “but not in secret—openly, manfully, and bravely.”

  “’Tis said he is a spy, and why a’n’t one spy as bad as another.”

  “’Tis untrue; no act of deception is worthy of my brother, nor of any would he be guilty, for so base a purpose as gain, or promotion.”

  “Well, I’m sure,” said Katy, a little appalled at the manner of the young lady, “if a body does the work, he should be paid for it. Harvey is by no means partic’lar about getting his lawful dues, and I dar’st to say, if the truth was forthcoming, king George owes him money, this very minute.”

  “Then you acknowledge his connexion, with the British army,” said Frances; “I confess there have been moments when I have thought differently.”

  “Lord, Miss Fanny, Harvey is a man that no calculation can be made on. ’Though I lived in his house for a long concourse of years, I have never known whether he belonged above, or below.* The time that Burg’yne was taken, he came home, and there was great doings between him and the old gentleman, but for the life I couldn’t tell if ’twas joy or grief. Then, here, the other day, when the great British general—I’m sure I have been so flurried with losses and troubles, that I forget his name—”

  “André,” said Frances.

  “Yes, Ondree; when he was hanged, acrost the Tappaan, the old gentleman was near hand to going crazy about it, and didn’t sleep for night, nor day, ’till Harvey got back; and then his money was mostly golden guineas; but the Skinners took it all, and now he is a beggar, or what’s the same thing, despiseable for poverty and want.”

  To this speech Frances continued her walk, up the hill, deeply engaged in her own reflections. The allusion to André had recalled her thoughts to the situation of her own brother.

  They soon reached the highest point in their toilsome progress to the summit, and Frances seated herself on a rock to rest and to admire. Immediately at her feet lay a deep dell, but little altered by cultivation, and dark with the gloom of a November sun-set. Another hill rose opposite to the place where she sat, at no great distance, along whose rugged sides nothing was to be seen but shapeless rocks, and oaks whose stinted growth showed a meagre soil.

  To be seen in their perfection, the Highlands must be passed immediately after the fall of the leaf. The scene is then the finest, for neither the scanty foliage which the summer lends the trees, nor the snows of winter, are present to conceal the minutest objects from the eye. Chilling solitude is the characteristic of the scenery, nor is the mind at liberty, as in March, to look forward to a renewed vegetation that is soon to check, without improving the view.

  The day had been cloudy and cool, and thin fleecy clouds hung around the horizon, often promising to disperse, but as frequently disappointing Frances in the hope of catching a parting beam from the setting sun. At length a solitary gleam struck on the base of the mountain, on which she was gazing, and moved gracefully up its side, until reaching the summit, it stood for a minute, forming a crown of glory to the sombre pile. So strong were the rays, that what was before indistinct, now clearly opened to the view. With a feeling of awe at being thus unexpectedly admitted, as it were, into the secrets of that desert place, Frances gazed intently, until among the scattered trees and fantastic rocks, something like a rude structure was seen. It was low, and so obscured by the colour of its materials, that but for its roof, and the glittering of a window, must have escaped her notice.—While yet lost in the astonishment created by discovering a habitation in such a spot, on moving her eyes she perceived another object that increased her wonder. It apparently was a human figure, but of singular mould and unusual deformity. It stood on the edge of a rock, a little above the hut, and it was no difficult task for our heroine to fancy it was gazing at the vehicles that were ascending the side of the mountain beneath her. The distance, however, was too great to distinguish with precision. After looking at it a moment in breathless wonder, Frances had just come to the conclusion that it was ideal, and that what she saw was part of the rock itself, when the object moved swiftly from its position, and glided into the hut, at once removing every doubt as to the nature of either. Whether it was owing to the recent conversation that she had been holding with Katy, or to some fancied resemblance that she discerned, Frances thought, as the figure vanished from her view, that it bore a marked likeness to Birch, moving under the weight of his pack. She continued to gaze towards the mysterious residence, when the gleam of light passed away, and at the same instant the tones of a bugle rang through the glens and hollows, and were re-echoed in every direction. Springing on her feet, the alarmed girl heard the trampling of horses, and directly a party, in the well known uniform of the Virginians, came sweeping round the point of a rock near her, and drew up at a short distance. Again the bugle sounded a lively strain, and before the agitated Frances had time to rally her thoughts, Dunwoodie dashed by the party of dragoons, threw himself from his charger, and advanced to her
side.

  His manner was earnest and interested, but in a slight degree constrained. In a few words he explained, that he had been ordered up, with a party of Lawton’s men, in the absence of the captain himself, to attend the trial of Henry, which was fixed for the morrow, and that anxious for their safety, in the rude passes of the mountain, he had ridden a mile, or two, in quest of the travellers. Frances explained, with trembling voice, the reason of her being in advance, and taught him momentarily to expect the arrival of her father. The constraint of his manner had, however, unwillingly on her part, communicated itself to her own deportment, and the approach of the chariot was a relief to both. The major handed her in, spoke a few words of encouragement to Mr. Wharton and Miss Peyton, and again mounting, led the way towards the plains of Fish-kill, which broke on their sight on turning the rock, with the effect of enchantment. A short half hour brought them to the door of the farm-house, which the care of Dunwoodie had already prepared for their reception, and where Captain Wharton was anxiously expecting their arrival.

  * The American party was called the party belonging “above,” and the British that of, “below.” The terms had reference to the course of the Hudson.

  Chapter XXVI

  “These limbs are strengthen’d with a soldier’s toil,

  Nor has this cheek been ever blanch’d with fear—

  But this sad tale of thine, enervates all

  Within me, that I once could boast as man—

  Chill, trembling agues seize upon my frame,

  And tears of childish sorrow pour apace

  Through scarred channels, that were mark’d by wounds.”

  Duo.

  * * *

  THE FRIENDS of Henry Wharton, had placed so much reliance on his innocence, that they were unable to see the full danger of his situation. As the moment of trial, however, approached, the uneasiness of the youth himself increased; and after spending most of the night with his afflicted family, he awoke, on the following morning, from a short and disturbed slumber, to a clearer sense of his condition, and a survey of the means that were to extricate him from it, with life. The rank of André, and the importance of the measures he was plotting, together with the powerful intercessions that had been made in his behalf, occasioned his execution to be stamped with greater notoriety than the ordinary events of the war. But spies were frequently arrested, and the instances that occurred of summary punishment, for this crime, were numerous. These were facts that were well known to both Dunwoodie and the prisoner; and to their experienced judgments the preparations for the trial were indeed alarming. Notwithstanding their apprehensions, they succeeded so far in concealing them, that neither Miss Peyton, nor Frances, was aware of their extent. A strong guard was stationed in the out-buildings of the farm-house where the prisoner was quartered, and several sentinels watched the avenues that approached the dwelling. Another was constantly near the room of the British officer. A court was already detailed to examine into the circumstances, and upon their decision the fate of Henry rested.

  The moment at length arrived, and the different actors in the approaching investigation assembled. Frances experienced a feeling like suffocation, as, after taking her seat in the midst of her family, her eyes wandered over the groupe who were thus collected. The judges, three in number, sat by themselves, clad in the vestments of their profession, and maintained a gravity worthy of the occasion, and becoming in their rank. In the centre was a man of advanced years, and whose whole exterior bore the stamp of early and long-tried military habits. This was the president of the court, and Frances, after taking a hasty and unsatisfactory view of his associates, turned to his benevolent countenance, as to the harbinger of mercy to her brother. There was a melting and subdued expression in the features of the veteran, that, contrasted with the rigid decency and composure of the others, could not fail to attract her notice. His attire was strictly in conformity to the prescribed rules of the service to which he belonged; but while his hair was erect and military, his fingers trifled, with a kind of convulsive and unconscious motion, with a bit of crape that entwined the hilt of the sword on which his body partly reclined, and which, like himself, seemed a relic of older times. There were the workings of an unquiet soul within; but his military front blended awe with the pity that its exhibition excited. His associates were officers selected from the eastern troops, who held the fortresses of West-Point and the adjacent passes—they were men who had attained the meridian of life, and the eye sought in vain the expression of any passion or emotion, on which it might seize as an indication of human infirmity. In their demeanour, there was a mild, but a grave, intellectual reserve. If there was no ferocity nor harshness to chill, neither was there compassion nor interest to attract. They were men who had long acted under the dominion of a prudent reason, and whose feelings seemed trained to a perfect submission to their judgments.

  Before these arbiters of his fate Henry Wharton was ushered, under the custody of armed men. A profound and awful silence succeeded his entrance, and the blood of Frances chilled as she noted the grave character of the whole proceedings. There was but little of pomp in the preparations, to impress her imagination, but the reserved, business-like air of the whole scene seemed indeed as if the destinies of life awaited the result. Two of the judges sat in grave reserve, fixing their inquiring eyes on the object of their investigation; but the president continued gazing around with uneasy convulsive motions of the muscles of the face, that indicated a restlessness foreign to his years and duty.—It was Colonel Singleton, who, but the day before, had learnt the fate of Isabella, but who stood forth in the discharge of a duty that his country required at his hands. The silence and the expectation in every eye, at length struck him, and, making an effort to collect himself, he spoke in the tones of one used to authority—

  “Bring forth the prisoner,” he said, with a wave of the hand.

  The sentinels dropped the points of their bayonets towards the judges, and Henry Wharton advanced with a firm step into the centre of the apartment. All was now anxiety and eager curiosity. Frances turned for a moment, in grateful emotion, as the deep and perturbed breathing of Dunwoodie reached her ears; but her brother again concentrated all her interest in one feeling of intense care. In the back ground were arranged the inmates of the family who owned the dwelling, and behind them again was a row of shining faces of ebony, glistening with pleased wonder. Amongst these was the faded lustre of Caesar Thompson’s countenance.

  “You are said,” continued the president, “to be Henry Wharton, a Captain in his Britannic Majesty’s 60th regiment of foot.”

  “I am.”

  “I like your candour, sir; it partakes of the honourable feelings of a soldier, and cannot fail to impress your judges favourably.”

  “It would be prudent,” said one of his companions, “to advise the prisoner that he is bound to answer no more than he deems necessary; although we are a court of martial law, yet, in this respect, we own the principles of all free governments.”

  A nod of approbation, from the silent member, was bestowed on this remark, and the president proceeded with caution—referring to the minutes he held in his hand.

  “It is in accusation against you, that, being an officer of the enemy, you passed the picquets of the American army at the White Plains, in disguise, on the 29th of October last, whereby you are suspected of views hostile to the interests of America; and have subjected yourself to the punishment of a Spy.”

  The mild but steady tones of the speaker, as he slowly repeated the substance of this charge, were full of authority. The accusation was so plain, the facts so limited, the proof so obvious, and the penalty so well established, that escape seemed impossible. But Henry replied, with earnest grace—

  “That I passed your picquets, in disguise, is true, but”—

  “Peace,” interrupted the president; “the usages of war are stern enough, in themselves; you n
eed not aid them to your own condemnation.”

  “The prisoner can retract that declaration, if he please,” remarked another judge. “His confession, if taken, goes fully to prove the charge.”

  “I retract nothing that is true,” said Henry, proudly.

  The two nameless judges heard him in silent composure, yet there was no exultation mingled with their gravity. The president now appeared, however, to take new interest in the scene.

  “Your sentiment is noble, sir,” he said. “I only regret that a youthful soldier should so far be misled by loyalty, as to lend himself to the purposes of deceit.”

  “Deceit!” echoed Wharton; “I thought it prudent to guard against capture from my enemies.”

  “A soldier, Captain Wharton, should never meet his enemy but openly and with arms in his hands. I have served two kings of England, as I now serve my native land; but never did I approach a foe, unless under the light of the sun, and with honest notice that an enemy was nigh.”

  “You are at liberty to explain what your motives were, in entering the ground held by our army, in disguise,” said the other judge, with a slight movement of the muscles of his mouth.

  “I am the son of this aged man, before you,” continued Henry. “It was to visit him that I encountered the danger. Besides, the country below is seldom held by your troops, and its very name implies a right to either party to move at pleasure over its territory.”