“I believe I understand you, friend,” returned Cecil, “for I have heard it whispered that the young man was believed to aid the Americans on the bloody day to which you allude—but if it is not lawful to kill in battle, what are you, whose whole trade is war?”
She was interrupted by half-a-dozen eager, though respectful voices, muttering in the incoherent and vehement manner of their country, “It’s all a difference, my lady!” “Fair fighting isn’t foul-fighting, and foul fighting is murder!” with many other similar half-formed and equally intelligible remonstrances. When this burst was ended, the same grenadier who had before spoken, took on himself the office of explaining.
“If your ladyship spoke never a word again, ye’ve said the truth this time,” he answered, “though it isn’t exactly the truth, at all. When a man is kill’t in the fair war, its a god-send; and no true Irishman will gainsay the same; but skulking behind a dead body, and taking aim into the f’atures of a fellow-crature, is what we complain of against the bloody-minded rascal. Besides, wasn’t the day won? and even his death couldn’t give them the victory!”
“I know not all these nice distinctions in your dreadful calling, friend,” Cecil replied, “but I have heard that many fell after the troops mounted the works.”
“That did they; sure your ladyship is knowing all about it! and it’s the more need that some should be punished for the murders! It’s hard to tell when we’ve got the day with men who make a fight of it after they are fairly baitin!”
“That others suffered under similar circumstances,” continued Cecil, with a quivering lip, and a tremulous motion of her eye-lids, “I well know, but had never supposed it more than the usual fortune of every war. But even if this youth has erred—look at him! Is he an object for the resentment of men who pride themselves on meeting their enemies on equal terms! He has long been visited by a blow from a hand mightier than yours, and even now is labouring, in addition to all other misfortunes, under that dangerous distemper whose violence seldom spares those it seizes. Nay, you, in the blindness of your anger, expose yourselves to its attacks, and when you think only of revenge, may become its victims!”
The crowd insensibly fell back as she spoke, and a large circle was left around the bed of Job, while many in the rear stole silently from the building, with a haste that betrayed how completely apprehension had got the better of their more evil passions. Cecil paused but an instant, and pursued her advantage.
“Go,” she said; “leave this dangerous vicinity. I have business with this young man, touching the interests, if not the life of one dear, deservedly dear to the whole army, and would be left alone with him and his mother. Here is money—retire to your own quarters, and endeavour to avert the danger you have so wantonly braved, by care and regimen. Go; all shall be forgotten and pardoned.”
The reluctant grenadier took her gold, and perceiving that he was already deserted by most of his companions, he made an awkward obeisance to the fair being before him, and withdrew, not without, however, casting many a savage and sullen glance at the miserable wretch who had been thus singularly rescued from his vengeance. Not a soldier now remained in the building, and the noisy and rapid utterance of the retiring party, as each vehemently recounted his deeds, soon became inaudible in the distance.
Cecil then turned to those who remained, and cast a rapid glance at each individual of the party. The instant she encountered the wondering look of Polwarth, the blood mantled her pale features once more, and her eyes fell, for an instant, in embarrassment, to the floor.
“I trust we have been drawn here for a similar purpose, captain Polwarth,” she said, when the slight confusion had passed away—“the welfare of a common friend?”
“You have not done me injustice,” he replied. “When the sad office, which your fair cousin charged me with, was ended, I hastened hither to follow a clue which I have reason to believe will conduct us to”—
“What we most desire to find,” said Cecil, involuntarily glancing her eyes towards the other spectators. “But our first duty is humanity. Cannot this miserable young man be reconveyed to his own apartment, and have his hurts examined.”
“It may be done now, or after our examination,” returned the captain, with a cool indifference that caused Cecil to look up at him in surprise. Perceiving the unfavourable impression his apathy had produced, Polwarth turned carelessly to a couple of men who were still curious lookers-on, at the outer door of the building, and called to them—“Here, Shearflint, Meriton, remove the fellow into yonder room.”
The servants in waiting, who had been hitherto wondering witnesses of all that passed, received this mandate with strong disgust. Meriton was loud in his murmurs, and approached the verge of disobedience, before he consented to touch such an object of squalid misery. As Cecil, however, enforced the order by her wishes, the disagreeable duty was performed, and Job replaced on his pallet in the tower, from which he had been rudely dragged an hour before, by the soldiers.
At the moment when all danger of further violence disappeared, Abigail sunk on some of the lumber of the apartment, where she remained during the removal of her child, in stupid apathy. When, however, she perceived that they were now surrounded by those who were bent on deeds of mercy rather than of anger, she slowly followed into the little room, and became an anxious observer of the succeeding events.
Polwarth seemed satisfied with what had been done for Job, and now stood aloof, in attendance on the pleasure of Cecil. The latter, who had directed every movement with female tenderness and care, bade the servants retire into the outer-room and wait her orders. When Abigail, therefore, took her place, in silence, near the bed of her child, there remained present, besides herself and the sick, only Cecil, the captain, and the unknown man, who had apparently led the former to the warehouse. In addition to the expiring flames of the oakum, the feeble light of a candle was shed through the room, merely rendering the misery of its tenants more striking.
Notwithstanding the high, but calm resolution which Cecil had displayed in the foregoing scene with the rioters, and which still manifested itself, in the earnest brightness of her eye, she appeared willing to profit by the duskiness of the apartment, to conceal her features from the gaze of even the forlorn female. She placed herself in one of the shadows of the room, and partly raised the calash, while she addressed the simpleton—
“Though I have not come hither with any intent to punish, nor in any manner to intimidate you with threats, Job Pray,” she said—“yet have I come to question you on matters that it would be wrong, as well as cruel in you, to misrepresent, or in any manner to conceal”—
“You have little cause to fear that any thing but the truth will be uttered by my child,” interrupted Abigail. “The same power that destroyed his reason, has dealt tenderly with his heart—the boy knows no guile—would to God the same could be said of the sinful woman who bore him!”
“I hope the character you give your son will be supported by his conduct,” replied Cecil: “with this assurance of his integrity, I will directly question him. But that you may see I take no idle liberty with the young man, let me explain my motives!” She hesitated a moment, and averted her face unconsciously, as she continued—“I should think, Abigail Pray, that my person must be known to you?”
“It is—it is,” returned the impatient woman, who appeared to feel the feminine and polished elegance of the other a reproach to her own misery—“you are the happy and wealthy heiress of her whom I have seen this day laid in her vault. The grave will open for all alike! the rich and the poor, the happy as well as the wretched! Yes—yes, I know you! you are the bride of a rich man’s son!”
Cecil shook back the dark tresses that had fallen about her countenance, and raised her face, tinged with its richest bloom, as she answered, with an air of matronly dignity—
“If you then know of my marriage, you will at once perceive that I have t
he interest of a wife in Major Lincoln—I would wish to learn his movements of your son.”
“Of my boy! of Job! from the poor despised child of poverty and disease, would you learn tidings of your husband?—no—no, young lady, you mock us; he is not worthy to be in the secrets of one so great and happy!”
“Yet am I deceived if he is not! Has there not been one called Ralph, a frequent inmate of your dwelling, during the past year, and has he not been concealed here within a very few hours?”
Abigail started at this question, though she did not hesitate to answer, without prevarication—
“It is true—If I am to be punished for harbouring a being that comes I know not whence, and goes I know not whither; who can read the heart, and knows what man, by his own limited powers, could never know, I must submit. He was here yesterday; he may be here again to-night; for he comes and goes at will. Your generals and army may interfere, but such as I dare not forbid it!”
“Who accompanied him when he departed last?” asked Cecil, in a voice so low, that, but for the profound stillness of the place, it would have been inaudible.
“My child—my weak, unmeaning, miserable child!” said Abigail, with a reckless promptitude that seemed to court any termination to her misery, however sudden or adverse. “If it be treasonable to follow in the footsteps of that nameless man, Job has much to answer for!”
“You mistake my purpose—good, rather than evil, will attend your answers, should they be found true.”
“True!” repeated the woman, ceasing the rocking motion of her body, and looking proudly up into the anxious face of Cecil—“but you are great and powerful, and are privileged to open the wounds of the unhappy!”
“If I have said any thing to hurt the feelings of a child, I shall deeply regret the words,” said Cecil, with gentle fervour—“I would rather be your friend than your oppressor, as you will learn when occasion offers.”
“No—no—you can never be a friend to me!” exclaimed the woman, shuddering; “the wife of Major Lincoln ought never to serve the interests of Abigail Pray!”
The simpleton, who had apparently lain in dull indifference to what was passing, raised himself now from among his rags, and said, with foolish pride—
“Major Lincoln’s lady has come to see Job, because Job is a gentleman’s son!”
“You are the child of sin and misery!” groaned Abigail, burying her head in her cloak—“would that you had never seen the light of day!”
“Tell me, then, Job, whether Major Lincoln himself has paid you this compliment, as well as I,” said Cecil, without regarding the conduct of the mother—“when did you see him last?”
“Perhaps I can put these questions in a more intelligible manner,” said the stranger, with a meaning glance of his eye towards Cecil, that she appeared instantly to comprehend. He turned then to Job, whose countenance he studied closely, for several moments, before he continued—“Boston must be a fine place for parades and shows, young man; do you ever go to see the soldiers exercise?”
“Job always keeps time in the marchings,” returned the simpleton, “’tis a grand sight to see the grannies treading it off to the awful sound of drums and trumpets!”
“And Ralph,” said the other, soothingly—“does he march in their company too?”
“Ralph! he’s a great warrior! he teaches the people their trainings, out on the hills—Job sees him there every time he goes for the Major’s provisions.”
“This requires some explanation,” said the stranger.
“’Tis easily obtained,” returned the observant Polwarth. “The young man has been the bearer of certain articles, periodically, from the country into the town, during the last six months, under the favour of a flag.”
The man mused a moment before he pursued the subject.
“When were you last among the rebels, Job?” he at length asked.
“You had best not call the people rebels,” muttered the young man, sullenly, “they wont put up with bitter names!”
“I was wrong, indeed. But when went you last for provisions?”
“Job got in last Sabba’day morning; and that’s only yesterday!”
“How happened it, fellow, that you did not bring the articles to me?” demanded Polwarth, with a good deal of heat.
“He has unquestionably a sufficient reason for the apparent neglect,” said the cautious and soothing stranger. “You brought them here, I suppose, for some good reason?”
“Ay! to feed his own gluttony!” muttered the captain.
The mother of the young man clasped her hands together convulsively, and made an effort to rise and speak, but she sunk again into her humble posture, as if choked by emotions that were too strong for utterance.
This short, but impressive pantomime was unnoticed by the stranger, who continued his inquiries in the same cool and easy manner as before.
“Are they yet here?” he asked.
“Certain,” said the unsuspecting simpleton; “Job has hid them ’till Major Lincoln comes back. Both Ralph and Major Lincoln forgot to tell Job what to do with the provisions.”
“In that case I am surprised you did not pursue them with your load.”
“Every body thinks Job’s a fool,” muttered the young man; “but he knows too much to be lugging provisions out ag’in among the people. Why!” he continued, raising himself, and speaking, with a bright glare dancing across his eyes, that betrayed how much he prized the envied advantage—“the Bay-men come down with cart-loads of things to eat, while the town is filled with hunger!”
“True; I had forgotten they were gone out among the Americans—of course they went under the flag that you bore in?”
“Job didn’t bring any flag—insygns carry the flags! He brought a turkey, a grand ham, and a little sa’ce—there wasn’t any flag among them.”
At the sound of these eatables, the captain pricked up his ears, and he probably would have again violated the rules of rigid decorum, had not the stranger continued his questions.
“I see the truth of all you say, my sensible fellow,” he observed. “It was easy for Ralph and Major Lincoln to go out by means of the same privilege that you used to enter?”
“To be sure,” muttered Job, who, tired of the questions, had already dropped his head among his blankets—“Ralph knows the way—he’s Boston born!”
The stranger turned to the attentive bride, and bowed, as if he were satisified with the result of his examination. Cecil understood the expression of his countenance, and made a movement towards the place where Abigail Pray was seated on a chest, betraying, by the renewed rocking of her body, and the low groans that from time to time escaped her, the agony of mind she endured.
“My first care,” she said, speaking to the mother of Job, “shall be to provide for your wants. After which I may profit by what we have now gathered from your son.”
“Care not for me and mine!” returned Abigail, in a tone of bitter resignation; “the last blow is struck, and it behoves such as we to bow our heads to it in submission. Riches and plenty could not save your grandmother from the tomb, and perhaps Death may take pity, ere long, on me. What do I say, sinner that I am! can I never bring my rebellious heart to wait his time!”
Shocked at the miserable despair that the other exhibited, and suddenly recollecting the similar evidences of a guilty life that the end of Mrs. Lechmere had revealed, Cecil continued silent. After a moment, to collect her thoughts, she said, with the meekness of a Christian, united to the soothing gentleness of her sex—
“We are surely permitted to administer to our earthly wants, whatever may have been our transgressions. At a proper time I will not be denied in my wish to serve you. Let us now go,” she added, addressing her unknown companion—then observing Polwarth making an indication to advance to her assistance, she gently motioned him back, and anticipated his
offer, by saying, “I thank you, sir—but I have Meriton, and this worthy man, besides my own maid without—I will not further interfere with your particular objects.”
As she spoke, she bestowed a melancholy, though sweet smile on the captain, and left the tower and the building, before he could presume to dispute her pleasure. Notwithstanding Cecil and her companion had obtained from Job all that he could expect, or in fact had desired to know, Polwarth lingered in the room, making those preparations that should indicate an intention to depart. He found, at length, that his presence was entirely disregarded by both mother and child. The one was still sitting, with her head bowed to her bosom, abandoned to her own sorrows, while the other had sunk into his customary dull lethargy, giving no other signs of life than by his laboured and audible breathing. The captain, for a moment, looked upon the misery of the apartment, which wore a still more dreary aspect under the dull light of the paltry candle, as well as at the disease and suffering which were too plainly exhibited in the persons of its abject tenants; but the glance at neither served to turn him from his purpose. Temptation had beset the humble follower of Epicurus in a form that never failed to subdue his most philosophic resolutions, and, in this instance, it prevailed over his humanity. Approaching the pallet of the simpleton, he spoke to him in a sharp voice, saying
“You must reveal to me what you have done with the provisions with which Mr. Seth Sage has entrusted you, young man—I cannot overlook so gross a violation of duty, in a matter of this singular importance. Unless you wish to have the grannies of the 18th back, speak at once, and speak truly.”
Job continued obstinately silent, but Abigail raised her head, and answered for her child—
“He has never failed to carry the things to the quarters of the Major, whenever he got back. No, no—if my boy was so graceless as to steal, it would not be him that he would rob!”
James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels Page 86