“I hope so—I hope so, good woman; but this is a sort of temptation to which men yield easily in times of scarcity,” returned the impatient captain, who probably felt some inward tokens of his own frailty in such matters.—“If they had been delivered would not I have been consulted concerning their disposition! The young man acknowledges that he quitted the American camp yesterday at an early hour.”
“No, no,” said Job, “Ralph made him come away on Saturda’-night. He left the people without his dinner!”
“And repaid his loss by eating the stores! Is this your honesty, fellow?”
“Ralph was in such a hurry that he wouldn’t stop to eat. Ralph’s a proper warrior, but he doesn’t seem to know how sweet it is to eat!”
“Glutton! gormandizer! Thou ostrich of a man!” exclaimed the angry Polwarth—“is it not enough that you have robbed me of my own, but you must make me more conscious of my loss by so exagerrated a picture?”
“If you really suspect my child of doing wrong to his employers,” said Abigail, “you know neither his temper nor his breeding. I will answer for him, and with bitterness of heart do I say it, that nothing in the shape of food has entered his mouth for many long and weary hours. Hear you not his piteous longings for nourishment? God, who knows all hearts, will hear and believe his cry!”
“What say you, woman!” cried Polwarth, aghast with horror, “not eaten did you say!—Why hast thou not, unnatural mother, provided for his wants—why has he not shared in your meals?”
Abigail looked up into his face with eyes that gleamed with hopeless want, as she answered—
“Would I willingly see the child of my body perish of hunger! The last crumb he had was all that was left me, and that came from the hands of one, who, in better justice, should have sent me poison!”
“Nab don’t know of the bone that Job found before the barracks,” said the young man, feebly; “I wonder if the king knows how sweet bones are?”
“And the provisions, the stores!” cried Polwarth, nearly choking—“foolish boy, what hast thou done with the provisions?”
“Job knew the grannies couldn’t find them under that oakum,” said the simpleton, raising himself to point out their place of concealment, with silly exultation—“when Major Lincoln comes back, may be he’ll give Nab and Job the bones to pick!”
Polwarth was no sooner made acquainted with the situation of the precious stores, than he tore them from their concealment, with the violence of a maniac. As he separated the articles with an unsteady hand, he rather panted than breathed; and during the short operation, every feature in his honest face was working with extraordinary emotion. Now and then he muttered in an under tone—“no food!” “suffering of inanition!” or some such expressive exclamation, that sufficiently explained the current of his thoughts. When all was fairly exposed, he shouted, in a tremendous voice—
“Shearflint! thou rascal! Shearflint—where have you hidden yourself?”
The reluctant menial knew how dangerous it was to hesitate answering a summons uttered in such a voice, and while his master was yet repeating his cries, he appeared at the door of the little apartment, with a face expressive of the deepest attention.
“Light up the fire, thou prince of idlers!” Polwarth continued in the same high strain; “here is food, and there is hunger! God be praised that I am the man who is permitted to bring the two acquainted! Here, throw on oakum—light up, light up!”
As these rapid orders were accompanied by a corresponding earnestness of action, the servant, who knew his master’s humour, set himself diligently at work to comply. A pile of the tarred combustible was placed on the dreary and empty hearth, and by a touch of the candle it was lighted into a blaze. As the roar of the chimney, and the bright glare were heard and seen, the mother and child both turned their longing eyes towards the busy actors in the scene. Polwarth threw aside his cane, and commenced slicing the ham with a dexterity that denoted great practice, as well as an eagerness that renewed the credit of his disgraced humanity.
“Bring wood—hand down that apology for a gridiron—make coals, make coals at once, rascal,” he said, at short intervals—“God forgive me, that I should ever have meditated evil to one suffering under the heaviest of curses!—D’ye hear, thou Shearflint! bring more wood; I shall be ready for the fire in a minute.”
“’Tis impossible, sir,” said the worried domestic; “I have brought the smallest chip there is to be found—wood is too precious in Boston to be lying in the streets.”
“Where do you keep your fuel, woman?” demanded the captain, unconscious that he addressed her in the same rough strain that he used to his menial—“I am ready to put down.”
“You see it all, you see it all!” said Abigail, in the submissive tones of a stricken conscience; “the judgment of God has not fallen on me singly!”
“No wood! no provisions!” exclaimed Polwarth, speaking with difficulty—then dashing his hand across his eyes, he continued to his man, in a voice whose hoarseness he intended should conceal his emotion—“thou villain, Shearflint, come hither—unstrap my leg.”
The servant looked at him in wonder, but an impatient gesture hastened his compliance.
“Split it into ten thousand fragments; ’tis seasoned and ready for the fire. The best of them, they of flesh I mean, are but useless incumbrances, after all! A cook wants hands, eyes, nose, and palate, but I see no use for a leg!”
While he was speaking, the philosophic captain seated himself on the hearth with great indifference, and by the aid of Shearflint, the culinary process was soon in a state of forwardness.
“There are people,” resumed the diligent Polwarth, who did not neglect his avocation while speaking, “that eat but twice a-day; and some who eat but once; though I never knew any man thrive who did not supply nature in four substantial and regular meals. These sieges are damnable visitations on humanity, and there should be plans invented to conduct a war without them. The moment you begin to starve a soldier, he grows tame and melancholy: feed him, and defy the devil! How is it, my worthy fellow; do you like your ham running or dry?”
The savoury smell of the meat had caused the suffering invalid to raise his feverish body, and he sat watching, with greedy looks, every movement of his unexpected benefactor. His parched lips were already working with impatience, and every glance of his glassy eye betrayed the absolute dominion of physical want over his feeble mind. To this question he made the simple and touching reply, of—
“Job isn’t particular in his eating.”
“Neither am I,” returned the methodical gourmand, returning a piece of meat to the fire, that Job had already devoured in imagination—“one would like to get it up well, notwithstanding the hurry. A single turn more, and it will be fit for the mouth of a prince. Bring hither that trencher, Shearflint—it is idle to be particular about crockery in so pressing a case. Greasy scoundrel, would you dish a ham in its gravy! What a nosegay it is, after all! Come hither, help me to the bed.”
“May the Lord, who sees and notes each kind thought of his creatures, bless and reward you for this care of my forlorn boy!” exclaimed Abigail, in the fullness of her heart; “but will it be prudent to give such strong nourishment to one in a burning fever?”
“What else would you give, woman? I doubt not he owes his disease to his wants. An empty stomach is like an empty pocket, a place for the devil to play his gambols in. ’Tis your small doctor who prates of a meager regimen. Hunger is a distemper of itself, and no reasonable man, who is above listening to quackery, will believe it can be a remedy. Food is the prop of life—and eating, like a crutch to a maimed man—Shearflint, examine the ashes for the irons of my supporter, and then dish a bit of the meat for the poor woman. Eat away, my charming boy, eat away!” he continued, rubbing his hands in honest delight, to see the avidity with which the famishing Job received his boon. “The second pleasur
e in life is to see a hungry man enjoy his meal. The first being more deeply seated in human nature. This ham has the true Virginia flavour! Have you such a thing as a spare trencher, Shearflint? It is so near the usual hour, I may as well sup. It is rare, indeed, that a man enjoys two such luxuries at once!”
The tongue of Polwarth ceased the instant Shearflint administered to his wants; the warehouse, into which he had so lately entered with such fell intent, exhibiting the strange spectacle of the captain, sharing, with social communion, in the humble repast of its hunted and miserable tenants.
Chapter XXVIII
“Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile
We have some secrets to confer about.”
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
* * *
DURING THE PRECEDING exhibition of riot and degradation, in the dock-square, a very different state of things existed beneath the roof of a proud edifice that stood in an adjacent street. As was usual at that hour of the night, the windows of Province-house were brilliant with lights, as if in mockery of the naked dreariness of the neighbouring church, and every approach to that privileged residence of the representative of royalty, was closely guarded by the vigilance of armed men. Into this favoured dwelling it now becomes necessary to remove the scene, in order to pursue the thread of our unpretending narrative.
Domestics, in rich military liveries, might be seen gliding from room to room, in the hurry of a banquet—some bearing vessels of the most generous wines into the apartment where Howe entertained the leaders of the royal army, and others returning with the remnants of a feast, which, though sumptuously served, having felt the scarcity of the times, had offered more to the eyes than to the appetites of the guests. Idlers, in the loose undress of their martial profession, loitered through the halls, and many a wistful glance, or lingering look followed the odorous scents, as humbler menials received the viands to transport them into the more secret recesses of the building. Notwithstanding the life and activity which prevailed, every movement was conducted in silence and regularity; the whole of the lively scene affording a happy illustration of the virtues and harmony of order.
Within the walls of that apartment to which every eye seemed directed as to a common centre, in anticipation of the slightest wish of those who revelled there, all was bright and cheerful. The hearth knew no want of fuel; the coarser workmanship of the floor was hid beneath rich and ample carpets, while the windows were nearly lost within the sweeping folds of curtains of figured damask. Every thing wore an air of exquisite comfort, blended with a species of careless elegance. Even the most minute article of the furniture had been transported from that distant country which was then thought to monopolize all the cunning arts of handicraft, to administer to the pleasures of those, who, however careless of themselves in moments of trial, courted the most luxurious indulgencies in their hours of ease.
Along the centre of this gay apartment was spread the hospitable board of the entertainer. It was surrounded by men in the trappings of high military rank, though here and there might be seen a guest, whose plainer attire and dejected countenance, betrayed the presence of one or two of those misjudging colonists, whose confidence in the resistless power of the crown, began already to waver. The lieutenant of the king held his wonted place at the banquet, his dark visage expressing the heartiness of a soldier’s welcome, while he pointed out this or that favourite amongst an abundant collection of wines, that included the choicest liquors of Europe.
“For those who share the mess of a British general, you have encountered rude fare to-day, gentlemen,” he cried; “though, after all, ’tis such as a British soldier knows how to fatten on, in the service of his master. Fill, gentlemen; fill in loyal bumpers, for we have neglected our allegiance.”
Each glass stood sparkling and overcharged with wine, when, after a short and solemn pause, the host pronounced the magical words—“The King.”—Every voice echoed the name, after which there literally succeeded a breathless pause; when an old man, in the uniform of an officer of the fleet, first proving his loyalty by flourishing his inverted glass, added, with hearty will—
“God bless him!”
“God bless him!” repeated the graceful leader, who has already been more than once named in these pages; “and grant him a long and glorious reign! and should there be no treason in the wish, in death, a Grave like yourself, worthy admiral—‘Sepulchrum sine sordibus extrue.’”
“Like me!” echoed the blunt seaman, whose learning was somewhat impaired by hard and long service—“I am, it is true, none of your cabin-window gentry, but his majesty might stoop lower than by favouring a faithful servant, like me, with his gracious presence.”
“Your pardon, sir, I should have included, ‘permissum arbitrio.’”
The equivoque had barely excited a smile, when the sedate countenance of the commander-in-chief indicated that the subject was too serious for a jest. Nor did the naval chieftain appear to relish the unknown tongue; for quite as much, if not a little more offended with the liberty taken with his own name, than with the privileged person of the sovereign, he somewhat smartly retorted—
“Permitted or not permitted, I command the fleet of his majesty in these waters, and it shall be noted as a cheerful day in our log-books, when you gentlemen of the army dismiss us to our duty again, on the high-seas. A sailor will grow as tired of doing nothing, as ever a soldier did of work, and I like ‘elbow-room,’ even in my coffin—ha, ha, ha—what d’ye think of that, master wit—ha, ha, ha—what d’ye say to that?”
“Quite fair, well deserved, and cuttingly severe, admiral,” returned the undisturbed soldier, smiling with perfect self-possession, as he sipped his wine. “But as you find confinement and leisure so irksome, I will presume to advise your seizing some of these impudent Yankees who look into the port so often, not only robbing us of our stores, but offending so many loyal eyes with their traitorous presence.”
“I command a parley to be beaten,” interrupted the commander-in-chief, “and a truce to further hostilities. Where all have done their duty, and have done it so well, even wit must respect their conduct. Let me advise you to sound the contents of that dusty-looking bottle, Mr. Graves; I think you will approve the situation as an anchorage for the night.”
The honest old seaman instantly drowned his displeasure in a glass of the generous liquor, and smacking his lips after potations, for he repeated the first on the moment, he exclaimed—
“Ah! you are too stationary, by half, to stir up the soul of your liquors. Wine should never slumber on its lees until it has been well rolled in the trough of the sea for a few months; then, indeed, you may set it asleep, and yourself by the side of it, if you like a cat’s nap.”
“As orthodox a direction for the ripening of wine as was ever given by a bishop to his butler!” exclaimed his adversary. Another significant glance from his dark-looking superior, again checked his wilful playfulness, when Howe profited by the silence, to say with the frank air of a liberal host—
“As motion is, just now, denied us, the only means I can devise, to prevent my wine from slumbering on its lees, is to drink it.”
“Besides which, we are threatened with a visit from Mr. Washington, and his thirsty followers, who may save us all trouble in the matter, unless we prove industrious. In such a dilemma, Mr. Graves will not hesitate to pledge me in a glass, though it should be only to disappoint the rebels!” added Burgoyne, making a graceful inclination to the half-offended seaman.
“Ay, ay, I would do much more disagreeable things to cheat the rascals of their plunder,” returned the mollified admiral, good-naturedly nodding his head before he swallowed his bumper—“If there be any real danger of the loss of such liquid amber as this, ’twould be as well to send it along-side my ship, and I will hoist it in, and find it a birth, though it shares my own cott. I believe I command a fortress which neither Yankee, Frenchman, nor Don, would li
ke to besiege.”
The officers around him looked exceedingly grave, exchanging glances of great meaning, though all continued silent, as if the common subject of their meditations was too delicate to be loudly uttered in such a presence. At length the second in command, who still felt the coldness of his superior, and who had, hitherto, said nothing during the idle dialogue, ventured a remark, with the gravity and distance of a man who was not certain of his welcome.
“Our enemies grow bold as the season advances,” he said, “and it is past a doubt that they will find us employment in the coming summer. It cannot be denied but they conduct themselves with great steadiness in all their batteries, especially in this last, at the water-side; nor am I without apprehension that they will yet get upon the islands, and render the situation of the shipping hazardous.”
“Get upon the islands! drive the fleet from their anchors!” exclaimed the veteran sailor, in undisguised amazement; “I shall account it a happy day for England, when Washington and his rabble trust themselves within reach of our shot!”
“God grant us a chance at the rascals with the bayonet in the open field,” cried Howe, “and an end of these winter-quarters! I say winter-quarters, for I trust no gentleman can consider this army as besieged by a mob of armed peasants! We hold the town, and they the country; but when the proper time shall come—well, sir, your pleasure,” he continued, interrupting himself to speak to an upper servant at his elbow.
The man, who had stood for more than a minute, in an attitude of respectful attention, anxious to catch the eye of his master, muttered his message in a low and hurried voice, as if unwilling to be heard by others, and at the same time conscious of the impropriety of whispering. Most of those around him turned their heads in polite indifference, but the old sailor, who sat too near to be totally deaf, had caught the words, “a lady,” which was quite enough to provoke all his merriment, after so free an indulgence of the bottle. Striking his hand smartly on the table, he exclaimed, with a freedom that no other present could have presumed to use—
James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels Page 87