James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Birch again lowered his face, but there was no yielding of the soul in the movement.

  “You will soon be old; the prime of your days is already past; what have you to subsist on?”

  “These!” said the pedlar, stretching forth his hands, that were already embrowned with toil.

  “But those may fail you; take enough to secure a support to your age. Remember your risks and cares. I have told you, that the characters of men, who are much esteemed in life, depend on your secrecy; what pledge can I give them of your fidelity?”

  “Tell them,” said Birch, advancing, and unconsciously resting one foot on the bag, “tell them that I would not take the gold!”

  The composed features of the officer relaxed into a smile of benevolence, and he grasped the hand of the pedlar, firmly.

  “Now, indeed, I know you; and although the same reasons which have hitherto compelled me to expose your valuable life, will still exist, and prevent my openly asserting your character, in private I can always be your friend—fail not to apply to me when in want or suffering, and so long as God giveth to me, so long will I freely share with a man who feels so nobly, and acts so well. If sickness or want should ever assail you, and peace once more smiles upon our efforts, seek the gate of him whom you have so often met as Harper, and he will not blush to acknowledge you in his true character.”

  “It is little that I need in this life,” said Harvey, “so long as God gives me health and honest industry, I can never want in this country—but to know that your Excellency is my friend, is a blessing that I prize more than all the gold of England’s treasury.”

  The officer stood for a few moments in the attitude of intense thought. He then drew to him the desk, and wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, and gave it to the pedlar.

  “That Providence destines this country to some great and glorious fate I must believe, while I witness the patriotism that pervades the bosoms of her lowest citizens,” he said. “It must be dreadful to a mind like yours to descend into the grave, branded as a foe to liberty; but you already know the lives that would be sacrificed, should your real character be revealed. It is impossible to do you justice now, but I fearlessly entrust you with this certificate—should we never meet again, it may be serviceable to your children.”

  “Children!” exclaimed the pedlar. “Can I give to a family the infamy of my name.”

  The officer gazed at the strong emotion he exhibited, with pain, and he made a slight movement towards the gold; but it was arrested by the expression of his companion’s face. Harvey saw the intention, and shook his head, as he continued more mildly—

  “It is, indeed, a treasure that your Excellency gives me—it is safe too.—There are men living who could say, that my life was nothing to me, compared to your secrets. The paper that I told you was lost, I swallowed when taken last by the Virginians. It was the only time I ever deceived your Excellency, and it shall be the last—yes, this is, indeed a treasure to me—perhaps,” he continued with a melancholy smile, “it may be known after my death who was my friend; but if it should not, there are none to grieve for me.”

  “Remember,” said the officer, with strong emotion, “that in me you will always have a secret friend; but openly I cannot know you.”

  “I know it—I know it,” said Birch; “I knew it when I took the service. ’Tis probably the last time that I shall ever see your Excellency. May God pour down his choicest blessings on your head.” He paused, and moved towards the door. The officer followed him with eyes that expressed deep interest. Once more the pedlar turned, and seemed to gaze on the placid, but commanding features of the General, with regret and reverence, and then, bowing low, he withdrew.

  The armies of America and France were led by their illustrious commander, against the enemy under Cornwallis, and terminated a campaign in triumph, that had commenced in difficulties. Great Britain soon after became disgusted with the war, and the independence of the States was acknowledged.

  As years rolled by, it became a subject of pride, among the different actors in the war, and their descendants, to boast of their efforts in the cause which had confessedly heaped so many blessings upon their country; but the name of Harvey Birch died away among the multitude of agents, who were thought to have laboured in secret, against the rights of their countrymen. His image, however, was often present to the mind of the powerful chief, who alone knew his true character, and several times did he cause secret inquiries to be made into the other’s fate—one of which only resulted in any success. By this, he learnt that a pedlar of a different name, but similar appearance, was toiling through the new settlements that were springing up in every direction, and that he was struggling with the advance of years, and apparent poverty. Death prevented further inquiries on the part of the officer, and a long period passed before he was again heard of.

  Chapter XXXV

  “Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,

  The little tyrant of his fields withstood—

  Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;

  Some Cromwell, guiltless of his Country’s blood.”

  Gray.

  * * *

  IT WAS thirty-three years after the interview, which we have just related, that an American army was once more arrayed against the troops of England; but the scene was transferred from the banks of the Hudson to those of the Niagara.

  The body of Washington had long lain mouldering in the tomb; but as time was fast obliterating the slight impressions of political enmity or personal envy, his name was hourly receiving new lustre, and his worth and integrity each moment became more visible, not only to his countrymen, but to the world. He was already the acknowledged hero of an age of reason and truth; and many a young heart, amongst those who formed the pride of our army in 1814, was glowing with the recollection of the one great name of America, and inwardly beating with the sanguine expectation of emulating, in some degree, its renown. In no one were these virtuous hopes more vivid, than in the bosom of a young officer, who stood on the table-rock, contemplating the great cataract, on the evening of the 25th of July, of that bloody year. The person of this youth was tall and finely moulded, indicating a just proportion between strength and activity; his deep black eyes were of a searching and dazzling brightness. At times, as they gazed upon the flood of waters that rushed tumultuously at his feet, there was a stern and daring look that flashed from them, which denoted the ardor of an enthusiast. But this proud expression was softened by the lines of a mouth, around which there played a suppressed archness, that partook of feminine beauty. His hair shone in the setting sun like ringlets of gold, as the air from the falls gently moved the rich curls from a forehead, whose whiteness showed that exposure and heat alone had given their darker hue, to a face glowing with health. There was another officer standing by the side of this favoured youth, and both seemed, by the interest they betrayed, to be gazing, for the first time, at the wonder of the western world. A profound silence was observed by each, until the companion of the officer that we have described, suddenly started, and pointing eagerly with his sword into the abyss beneath, exclaimed—

  “See! Wharton: there is a man crossing in the very eddies of the cataract, and in a skiff no bigger than an egg-shell.”

  “He has a knapsack; it is probably a soldier,” returned the other. “Let us meet him at the ladder, Mason, and learn his tidings.”

  Some time was expended in reaching the spot where the adventurer was intercepted. Contrary to the expectations of the young soldiers, he proved to be a man far advanced in life, and evidently no follower of the camp. His years might be seventy, and they were indicated more by the thin hairs of silver that lay scattered over his wrinkled brow, than by any apparent failure of his system. His frame was meagre and bent; but it was the attitude of habit, for his sinews were strung with the toil of half a century. His dress was mean, and manifested the economy of its
owner, by the number and nature of its repairs. On his back was a scantily furnished pack, that had led to the mistake in his profession. A few words of salutation, and on the part of the young men of surprise, that one so aged should venture so near the whirlpools of the cataract, were exchanged; when the old man inquired, with a voice that began to manifest the tremor of age, the news from the contending armies.

  “We whipt the red-coats here, the other day, among the grass on the Chippewa plains,” said the one who was called Mason; “since when, we have been playing hide-and-go-seek with the ships—but we are now marching back from where we started, shaking our heads, and as surly as the devil.”

  “Perhaps you have a son among the soldiers,” said his companion with a milder demeanor, and an air of kindness; “if so, tell me his name and regiment, and I will take you to him.”

  The old man shook his head, and, passing his hand over his silver locks, with an air of meek resignation he answered—

  “No—I am alone in the world!”

  “You should have added, Captain Dunwoodie,” cried his careless comrade, “if you could find either; for nearly half our army has marched down the road, and may be, by this time, under the walls of fort George, for any thing that we know to the contrary.”

  The old man stopped suddenly, and looked earnestly from one of his companions to the other; the action being observed by the soldiers, they paused also.

  “Did I hear right,” the stranger uttered, raising his hand to skreen his eyes from the rays of the setting sun; “what did he call you?”

  “My name is Wharton Dunwoodie,” replied the youth, smiling.

  The stranger motioned silently for him to remove his hat, which the youth did accordingly, and his fair hair blew aside like curls of silk, and opened the whole of his ingenuous countenance to the inspection of the other.

  “’Tis like our native land,” exclaimed the old man, with vehemence, “improving with time—God has blessed both.”

  “Why do you stare thus, Lieutenant Mason,” cried Captain Dunwoodie, laughing and colouring a little; “you show more astonishment than when you saw the falls.”

  “Oh! the falls—they are a thing to be looked at on a moonshiny night, by your aunt Sarah and that gay old bachelor, Colonel Singleton; but a fellow like myself never shows surprise, unless it may be at such a touch as this.”

  The extraordinary vehemence of the stranger’s manner had passed away, as suddenly as it was exhibited, but he listened to this speech with deep interest, while Dunwoodie replied a little gravely—

  “Come, come, Tom—no jokes about my good aunt, I beg—she is kindness itself, and I have heard it whispered that her youth was not altogether happy.”

  “Why as to rumour,” said Mason, “there goes one in Accomac, that Colonel Singleton offers himself to her regularly every Valentine’s day; and there are some who add, that your old great-aunt helps his suit.”

  “Aunt Jeanette!” said Dunwoodie, laughing, “dear good soul, she thinks but little of marriage in any shape, I believe, since the death of Dr. Sitgreaves. There were some whispers of a courtship between them formerly, but it ended in nothing but civilities, and I suspect that the whole story arises from the intimacy of Colonel Singleton and my father. You know they were comrades in the horse, as indeed was your own father.”

  “I know all that, of course; but you must not tell me that the particular, prim, bachelor goes so often to General Dunwoodie’s plantation, merely for the sake of talking old soldier with your father. The last time I was there, that yellow, sharp nosed, housekeeper of your mother’s, took me into the pantry, and said that the colonel was no despiseable match, as she called it, and how the sale of his plantation in Georgia had brought him—Oh! Lord, I don’t know how much.”

  “Quite likely,” returned the captain; “Katy Haynes is no bad calculator.”

  They had stopped during this conversation in uncertainty, whether their new companion was to be left or not.

  The old man listened to each word as it was uttered, with the most intense interest, but towards the conclusion of the dialogue, the earnest attention of his countenance changed to a kind of inward smile. He shook his head, and passing his hand over his forehead, seemed to be thinking of other times. Mason paid but little attention to the expression of his features, and continued—

  “To me, she is selfishness embodied!”

  “Her selfishness does but little harm,” returned Dunwoodie. “One of her greatest difficulties is her aversion to the blacks. She says that she never saw but one that she liked.”

  “And who was he?”

  “His name was Caesar; he was a house servant of my late grandfather, Wharton. You don’t remember him, I believe; he died the same year with his master, while we were children. Katy yearly sings his requiem, and upon my word, I believe he deserved it. I have heard something of his helping my English uncle, as we call General Wharton, in some difficulty that occurred in the old war. My mother always speaks of him with great affection. Both Caesar and Katy came to Virginia with my mother when she married.—My mother was—”

  “An angel!” interrupted the old man, in a voice that startled the young soldiers by its abruptness and energy.

  “Did you know her?” cried the son, with a glow of pleasure on his cheek.

  The reply of the stranger was interrupted by sudden and heavy explosions of artillery, which were immediately followed by continued volleys of small arms, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the tumult of a warm and well contested battle.

  The two soldiers hastened with precipitation towards the camp, accompanied by their new acquaintance. The excitement and anxiety created by the approaching fight, prevented a continuance of the conversation, and the three held their way to the army, making occasional conjectures on the cause of the fire and the probability of a general engagement. During their short and hurried walk, Captain Dunwoodie, however, threw several friendly glances at the old man, who moved over the ground with astonishing energy for his years, for the heart of the youth was warmed by an eulogium on a mother that he adored.—In a short time, they joined the regiment to which the officers belonged, when the captain squeezing the stranger’s hand, earnestly begged that he would make inquiries after him on the following morning, and that he might see him in his own tent. Here they separated.

  Every thing in the American camp announced an approaching struggle. At a distance of a few miles, the sound of cannon and musketry, was heard above the roar of the cataract. The troops were soon in motion, and a movement made to support the division of the army which was already engaged. Night had set in before the reserve and irregulars reached the foot of Lundy’s lane, a road that diverged from the river and crossed a conical eminence, at no great distance from the Niagara highway. The summit of this hill was crowned with the cannon of the British, and in the flat beneath was the remnant of Scott’s gallant brigade, which for a long time had held an unequal contest, with distinguished bravery. A new line was interposed, and one column of the Americans directed to charge up the hill, parallel to the road. This column took the English in flank, and, bayonetting their artillerists, gained possession of the cannon. They were immediately joined by their comrades and the enemy was swept from the hill. But large reinforcements were joining the English general, momentarily, and their troops were too brave to rest easy under the defeat. Repeated and bloody charges were made to recover the guns, but in all they were repulsed with slaughter. During the last of these struggles, the ardor of the youthful captain whom we have mentioned, urged him to lead his men some distance in advance, to scatter a daring party of the enemy—he succeeded, but in returning to the line missed his lieutenant from the station, that he ought to have occupied. Soon after this repulse, which was the last, orders were given to the shattered troops to return to the camp. The British were no where to be seen, and preparations were made to take in such of the woun
ded as could be moved. At this moment Wharton Dunwoodie, impelled by affection for his friend, seized a lighted fuse, and taking two of his men, went himself in quest of his body, where he was supposed to have fallen. Mason was found on the side of the hill, seated with great composure, but unable to walk from a fractured leg. Dunwoodie saw and flew to the side of his comrade, exclaiming—

  “Ah! dear Tom, I knew I should find you the nearest man to the enemy.”

  “Softly—softly—handle me tenderly,” replied the lieutenant; “no, there is a brave fellow still nearer than myself, and who he can be I know not. He rushed out of our smoke, near my platoon, to make a prisoner or some such thing, but, poor fellow, he never came back; there he lies just over the hillock. I have spoken to him several times, but I fancy he is past answering.”

  Dunwoodie went to the spot, and to his astonishment beheld the aged stranger.

  “It is the old man who knew my mother!” cried the youth; “for her sake he shall have honourable burial—lift him, and let him be carried in; his bones shall rest on native soil.”

  The men approached to obey. He was lying on his back, with his face exposed to the glaring light of the fuse; his eyes were closed, as if in slumber;—his lips, sunken with years, were slightly moved from their natural position, but it seemed more like a smile than a convulsion, which had caused the change. A soldier’s musket lay near him; his hands were pressed upon his breast, and one of them contained a substance that glittered like silver. Dunwoodie stooped, and removing the limbs, perceived the place where the bullet had found a passage to his heart. The subject of his last care was a tin box, through which the fatal lead had gone; and the dying moments of the old man must have passed in drawing it from his bosom. Dunwoodie opened it, and found a paper, in which, to his astonishment, he read the following:

  “Circumstances of political importance, which involve the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what this paper now reveals. Harvey Birch has for years been a faithful and unrequited servant of his country. Though man does not, may God reward him for his conduct.