James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Will the day ever arrive,” said a low, hollow voice at his elbow, “when those flags shall be lowered, never to rise again in this hemisphere!”

  The young soldier turned his quick look to the countenance of the speaker, but bent it instantly in embarrassment on the deck, to avoid the keen, searching glance he encountered. A long, and on the part of the young man, a painful silence succeeded. At length the latter, pointing to the land, said—

  “Tell me, you, who are of Boston, and must have known it so long, the names of all these places.”

  “And are you not of Boston, too?” asked his old companion.

  “Certainly by birth, but an Englishman by habit and education.”

  “Accursed be the habits, and neglected the education, which would teach a child to forget its parentage!” muttered the old man, turning, and walking away so rapidly as to be suddenly lost in the forward parts of the ship.

  For several minutes longer, the youth stood absorbed in his own musings, when, as if recollecting his previous purposes, he called aloud—“Meriton.”

  At the sounds of his voice the curious group around the pilot instantly separated, and the highly ornamented youth, before mentioned, approached the officer, with a manner in which pert familiarity and fearful respect were peculiarly blended. Without regarding the manner of the other, however, or indeed without even favouring him with a glance, the young soldier continued—

  “I desired you to detain the boat which boarded us, in order to convey me to the town, Mr. Meriton; see if it be in readiness.”

  The valet flew to execute this commission, and in an instant returned with a reply in the affirmative.

  “But, sir,” he continued, “you will never think of going in that boat, I feel very much assured, sir.”

  “Your assurance, Mr. Meriton, is not the least of your qualifications; why should I not?”

  “That disagreeable old stranger has taken possession of it, with his bundle of rags; and—”

  “And what? you must name a greater evil, to detain me here, than the fact that the only gentleman in the ship is to be my companion.”

  “Lord, sir!” said Meriton, glancing his eye upward in amazement; “but, sir, surely you know best as to gentility of behaviour—but as to gentility of dress—”

  “Enough of this,” interrupted his master, a little angrily; “the company is such as I am content with; if you find it unequal to your deserts, you have permission to remain in the ship until the morning—the presence of a coxcomb is by no means necessary to my comfort for one night.”

  Without regarding the mortification of his disconcerted valet, the young man passed along the deck to the place where the boat was in waiting. By the general movement among the indolent menials, and the profound respect with which he was attended by the master of the ship to the gangway, it was sufficiently apparent, that notwithstanding his youth, it was this gentleman whose presence had exacted those arrangements in the ship, which have been mentioned. While all around him, however, were busy in facilitating the entrance of the officer into the boat, the aged stranger occupied its principal seat, with an air of deep abstraction. A hint from the pliant Meriton, who had ventured to follow his master, that it would be more agreeable if he would relinquish his place, was disregarded, and the youth took a seat by the side of the old man, with a simplicity of manner that his valet inwardly pronounced degrading. As if this humiliation were not sufficient, the young man perceiving that a general pause succeeded his own entrance, turned to his companion, and courteously inquired if he were ready to proceed. A silent wave of the hand was the reply, when the boat shot away from the vessel, leaving the ship steering for an anchorage in Nantasket.

  The measured dash of the oars was uninterrupted by any voice, while, stemming the tide, they pulled laboriously up among the islands; but by the time they had reached the castle, the twilight had melted into the softer beams of a young moon, and surrounding objects becoming more distinct, the stranger commenced talking with that quick and startling vehemence which seemed his natural manner. He spoke of the localities, with the vehemence and fondness of an enthusiast, and with the familiarity of one who had long known their beauties. His rapid utterance, however, ceased as they approached the naked wharves, and he sunk back gloomily in the boat, as if unwilling to trust his voice on the subject of his country’s wrongs. Thus left to his own thoughts, the youth gazed, with interest, at the long ranges of buildings, which were now clearly visible to the eye, though in softer colours and more gloomy shadows. A few neglected and dismantled ships were lying at different points; but the hum of business, the forests of masts, and the rattling of wheels which at that early hour should have distinguished the great mart of the colonies, were wanting. In their places were to be heard, at intervals, bursts of martial music, the riotous merriment of the soldiery who frequented the taverns at the water’s edge, or the sullen challenges of sentinels from the vessels of war, as they vexed the progress of the few boats which the inhabitants still used in their ordinary pursuits.

  “Here indeed is a change!” the young officer exclaimed, as they glided along this desolate scene; “even my recollections, young and fading as they are, recall the difference!”

  The stranger made no reply, but a smile of singular meaning gleamed across his wan features, imparting, by the moonlight, to their remarkable expression, a character of additional wildness. The officer was again silent, nor did either speak until the boat, having shot by the end of the long wharf, across whose naked boundaries a sentinel was pacing his measured path, inclined more to the shore, and soon reached the place of its destination.

  Whatever might have been the respective feelings of the two passengers at having thus reached in safety the object of their tiresome and protracted voyage, they were not expressed in language. The old man bared his silver locks, and concealing his face with his hat, stood as if in deep mental thanksgiving at the termination of his toil, while his more youthful companion trod the wharf on which they landed with the air of a man whose emotions were too engrossing for the ordinary use of words.

  “Here we must part, sir,” the officer at length said; “but I trust the acquaintance which has been thus accidentally formed, is not to be forgotten now there is an end to our common privations.”

  “It is not in the power of a man whose days, like mine, are numbered,” returned the stranger, “to mock the liberality of his God, by any vain promises that must depend on time for their fulfilment. I am one, young gentleman, who has returned from a sad, sad pilgrimage in the other hemisphere, to lay his bones in this, his native land; but should many hours be granted me, you will hear further of one whom your courtesy and kindness have so greatly obliged.”

  The officer was sensibly affected by the softened but solemn manner of his companion, and pressed his wasted hand fervently as he answered—

  “Do; I ask it as a singular favour; I know not why, but you have obtained a command of my feelings that no other being ever yet possessed—and yet—’tis a mystery, ’tis like a dream! I feel that I not only venerate, but love you!”

  The old man stepped back, and held the youth at the length of his arm for a moment, while he fastened on him a look of glowing interest, and then raising his hand slowly, he pointed upward, and said—

  “’Tis from heaven, and for God’s own purposes—smother not the sentiment, boy, but cherish it in your heart’s core!”

  The reply of the youth was interrupted by violent shrieks, that burst rudely on the stillness of the place. Quick and severe blows of a lash were blended with the exclamations of the sufferer, and rude oaths, with hoarse execrations, from various voices, were united in the uproar, which appeared to be at no great distance. By a common impulse, the whole party broke away from the spot, and moved rapidly up the wharf in the direction of the sounds. As they approached the buildings, a group was seen collected around the man who thus broke th
e charm of evening by his cries, interrupting his wailings with their ribaldry, and encouraging his tormentors to proceed.

  “Mercy, mercy, for the sake of the blessed God, have mercy, and don’t kill Job!” shrieked the sufferer; “Job will run your a’r’nds! Job is half-witted! Mercy on poor Job! Oh! you make his flesh creep!”

  “I’ll cut the heart from the knave,” interrupted a hoarse voice; “to refuse to drink the health of his majesty!”

  “Job does wish him good health—Job loves the king, only Job don’t love rum.”

  The officer had approached so nigh as to perceive that the whole scene was one of disorder and abuse, and pushing aside the crowd of soldiers, who composed the throng, he broke at once into the centre of the circle.

  Chapter II

  “They’ll have me whipped for speaking true;

  Thoul’t have me whipped for lying;

  And sometimes I’m whipped for holding my peace.

  I had rather be any kind of a thing

  Than a fool.”

  Lear.

  * * *

  “WHAT MEANS this outcry?” demanded the young man, arresting the arm of a laughing soldier who was inflicting the blows; “by what authority is this man thus abused?”

  “By what authority dare you to lay hands on a British grenadier!” cried the fellow, turning and raising his lash against the supposed townsman. But when, as the officer stepped aside to avoid the threatened indignity, the light of the moon fell upon his glittering dress, through the opening folds of his cloak, the uplifted arm of the soldier was held suspended in air.

  “Answer,” continued the young officer, his frame shaking with passion; “why is this man tormented, and of what regiment are ye?”

  “We belong to the grenadiers of the brave 47th, your honour,” returned one of the bystanders, in a deprecating tone, “and we was just polishing this ’ere natural, because as he refuses to drink the health of his majesty.”

  “He’s a scornful sinner, that don’t fear his Maker,” cried the man in duresse, eagerly bending his face, down which big tears were rolling, towards his protector. “Job loves the king, but Job don’t love rum!”

  The officer turned away from the cruel spectacle, as he bid the men untie their prisoner. Knives and fingers were instantly put in requisition, and the man was liberated, and suffered to resume his clothes. During this operation, the tumult and bustle which had so recently distinguished the riotous scene, were succeeded by a stillness that rendered the hard breathing of the sufferer audible.

  “Now sirs, you heroes of the 47th!” said the young man, when the victim of their rage was again clad, “know you this button?” The soldier to whom this question was more particularly addressed, gazed at the extended arm, and, to his discomfiture, he beheld the magical number of his own regiment reposing on the well-known white facings that decorated the scarlet of the vestment. No one presumed to answer this appeal, and after an impressive silence, he continued—

  “Ye are noble supporters of the well-earned fame of ‘Wolfe’s own!’ fit successors to the gallant men who conquered under the walls of Quebec! away with ye; to-morrow it shall be looked to.”

  “I hope your honour will remember he refused his majesty’s health. I’m sure, sir, that if colonel Nesbitt was here himself—”

  “Dog! do you dare to hesitate! go, while you have permission to depart.”

  The disconcerted soldiery, whose turbulence had thus vanished, as if by enchantment, before the frown of their superior, slunk away in a body, a few of the older men whispering to their comrades the name of the officer who had thus unexpectedly appeared in the midst of them. The angry eye of the young soldier followed their retiring forms, while a man of them was visible; after which, turning to an elderly citizen, who, supported on a crutch, had been a spectator of the scene, he asked—

  “Know you the cause of the cruel treatment this poor man has received? or what in any manner has led to the violence?”

  “The boy is weak,” returned the cripple; “quite an innocent, who knows but little good, but does no harm. The soldiers have been carousing in yonder dram-shop, and they often get the poor lad in with them, and sport with his infirmity. If these sorts of doings an’t checked, I fear much trouble will grow out of them! Hard laws from t’other side of the water, and tarring and feathering on this, with gentlemen like colonel Nesbitt at their head, will”—

  “It is wisest for us, my friend, to pursue this subject no further,” interrupted the officer; “I belong myself to ‘Wolfe’s own,’ and will endeavour to see justice done in the matter; as you will credit, when I tell you that I am a Boston boy.* But though a native, long absence has obliterated the marks of the town from my memory; and I am at a loss to thread these crooked streets. Know you the dwelling of Mrs. Lechmere?”

  “The house is well known to all in Boston,” returned the cripple, in a tone sensibly altered by the information that he was speaking to a townsman. “Job, here, does but little else than run of errands, and he will show you the way out of gratitude; wont you Job?”

  The idiot, for the vacant eye and unmeaning, boyish countenance of the young man who had just been liberated, but too plainly indicated that he was to be included in that miserable class of human beings, answered with a caution and reluctance that were a little remarkable, considering the recent circumstances.

  “Ma’am Lechmere’s! Oh! Job knows the way, and could go there blindfolded, if—if—”

  “If what, you simpleton!” exclaimed the zealous cripple.

  “Why, if ’twas daylight.”

  “Blindfolded, and daylight! do but hear the silly child! come, Job, you must take this gentleman to Tremont-street, without further words. ’Tis but just sundown,† boy, and you can go there and be home and in your bed before the Old South‡ strikes eight!”

  “Yes; that all depends on which way you go,” returned the reluctant youth. “Now, I know, neighbour Hopper, you couldn’t go to Ma’am Lechmere’s in an hour, if you went along Lynn-street, and so along Prince-street, and back through Snow-Hill; and especially if you should stop any time to look at the graves on Copps.”

  “Pshaw! the fool is in one of his sulks now, with his Copps-Hill, and the graves!” interrupted the cripple, whose heart had warmed to his youthful townsman, and who would have volunteered to show the way himself, had his infirmities permitted the exertion. “The gentleman must call the grenadiers back, to bring the child to reason.”

  “’Tis quite unneccessary to be harsh with the unfortunate lad,” said the young soldier; “my recollections will probably aid me as I advance; and should they not, I can inquire of any passenger I meet.”

  “If Boston was what Boston has been, you might ask such a question of a civil inhabitant, at any corner,” said the cripple; “but it’s rare to see many of our people in the streets at this hour, since the massacre.§ Besides, it is Saturday night, you know; a fit time for these rioters to choose for their revelries! For that matter, the soldiers have grown more insolent than ever, since they have met that disappointment about the cannon down at Salem; but I needn’t tell such as you what the soldiers are when they get a little savage.”

  “I know my comrades but indifferently well, if their conduct to night be any specimen of their ordinary demeanour, sir,” returned the officer; “but follow, Meriton; I apprehend no great difficulty in our path.”

  The pliant valet lifted the cloak-bag from the ground, and they were about to proceed, when the natural edged himself in a sidelong, slovenly manner, nigher to the gentleman, and looked earnestly up in his face for a moment, where he seemed to be gathering confidence, to say—“Job will show the officer Ma’am Lechmere’s, if the officer wont let the grannies catch Job afore he gets off the North End ag’in.”

  “Ah!” said the young man, laughing, “there is something of the cunning of a fool in that arrangement. Well, I
accept the conditions; but beware how you take me to contemplate the graves by moonlight, or I shall deliver you not only to the grannies, but to the light infantry, artillery, and all.”

  With this good-natured threat, the officer followed his nimble conductor, after taking a friendly leave of the obliging cripple, who continued his admonitions to the natural, not to wander from the direct route, while the sounds of his voice were audible. The progress of his guide was so rapid as to require the young officer to confine his survey of the narrow and crooked streets through which they passed, to extremely hasty and imperfect glances. No very minute observation, however, was necessary to perceive that he was led along one of the most filthy and inferior sections of the town; and where, notwithstanding his efforts, he found it impossible to recall a single feature of his native place to his remembrance. The complaints of Meriton, who followed close at the heels of his master, were loud and frequent, until the gentleman, a little doubting the sincerity of his intractable conductor, exclaimed—