James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “’Tis an awful time for women bodies to journey in!” said a middle-aged woman near her, who was busily engaged in knitting, though she also bore the marks of a traveller in her dress—“I’m sure if I had thought there’d ha’ been such contentions, I would never have crossed the Connecticut; though I have an only child in camp!”

  “To a mother, the distress must be great, indeed,” said Cecil, “when she hears the report of a contest in which she knows her children are engaged.”

  “Yes, Royal is engaged as a six-month’s-man, and he is partly agreed to stay ’till the king’s troops conclude to give up the town.”

  “It seems to me,” said a grave looking yeoman, who occupied the opposite corner of the fire-place, “your child has an unfitting name for one who fights against the crown!”

  “Ah, he was so called before the king wore his Scottish Boot! and what has once been solemnly named, in holy baptism, is not to be changed with the shift of the times! They were twins, and I called one Prince and the other Royal; for they were born the day his present majesty came to man’s estate. That, you know, was before his heart had changed, and when the people of the Bay loved him little less than they did their own flesh and blood.”

  “Why, Goody,” said the yeoman, smiling good-humouredly, and rising to offer her a pinch of his real Scotch, in token of amity, while he made so free with her domestic matters—“you had then an heir to the throne in your own family! The Prince Royal they say comes next to the king, and by your tell, one of them, at least, is a worthy fellow, who is not likely to sell his heritage for a mess of pottage! If I understand you, Royal is here in service.”

  “He’s at this blessed moment in one of the battering rams in front of Boston neck,” returned the woman, “and the Lord, he knows, ’tis an awful calling, to be beating down the housen of people of the same religion and blood with ourselves! but so it must be, to prevail over the wicked designs of such as would live in pomp and idleness, by the sweat and labour of their fellow-creatures.”

  The honest yeoman, who was somewhat more familiar with the terms of modern warfare, than the woman, smiled at her mistake, while he pursued the conversation with a peculiar gravity, which rendered his humour doubly droll.

  “’Tis to be hoped the boy will not weary at the weapon before the morning cometh. But why does Prince linger behind, in such a moment! Tarries he with his father on the homestead, being the younger born?”

  “No, no,” said the woman, shaking her head, in sorrow, “he dwells, I trust, with our common Father, in heaven! Neither are you right in calling him the home-child. He was my first-born, and a comely youth he grew to be! When the cry that the reg’lars were out at Lexington, to kill and destroy, passed through the country, he shouldered his musket, and came down with the people, to know the reason the land was stained with American blood. He was young, and full of ambition to be foremost among them who were willing to fight for their birthrights; and the last I ever heard of him was in the midst of the king’s troops on Breed’s. No, no; his body never came off the hill! The neighbours sent me up the clothes he left in camp, and ’tis one of his socks that I’m now footing for his twin-brother.”

  The woman delivered this simple explanation with perfect calmness, though, as she advanced in the subject, tears started from her eyes, and following each other down her cheeks, fell unheeded upon the humble garment of her dead son.

  “This is the way our bravest striplings are cut off, fighting with the scum of Europe!” exclaimed the yeoman, with a warmth that showed how powerfully his feelings were touched—“I hope the boy who lives, may find occasion to revenge his brother’s death.”

  “God forbid! God forbid!” exclaimed the mother—“revenge is an evil passion; and least of all would I wish a child of mine to go into the field of blood with so foul a breast. God has given us this land to dwell in, and to rear up temples and worshippers of his holy name, and in giving it, he bestowed the right to defend it against all earthly oppression. If ’twas right for Prince to come, ’twas right for Royal to follow!”

  “I believe I am reproved in justice,” returned the man, looking around at the spectators, with an eye that acknowledged his error—“God bless you, good woman; and deliver you, with your remaining boy, and all of us, from the scourge which has been inflicted on the country for our sins. I go west, into the mountains, with the sun, and if I can carry any word of comfort from you to the good man at home, it will not be a hill or two that shall hinder it.”

  “The same thanks to you for the offer, as if you did it, friend; my man would be right glad to see you at his settlement, but I sicken already with the noises and awful sights of warfare, and shall not tarry long after my son comes forth from the battle. I shall go down to Craigie’s-house in the morning, and look upon the blessed man whom the people have chosen from among themselves as a leader, and hurry back again; for I plainly see that this is not an abiding place for such as I!”

  “You will then have to follow him into the line of danger, for I saw him, within the hour, riding with all his followers, towards the water-side; and I doubt not that this unusual waste of ammunition is intended for more than we of little wit can guess.”

  “Of whom speak you?” Cecil involuntarily asked.

  “Of whom should he speak, but of Washington?” returned a deep, low voice at her elbow, whose remarkable sounds instantly recalled the tones of the aged messenger of death, who had appeared at the bed-side of her grandmother. Cecil started from her chair, and recoiled several paces from the person of Ralph, who stood regarding her with a steady and searching look, heedless of the observation they attracted, as well as of the number and quality of the spectators.

  “We are not strangers, young lady,” continued the old man; “and you will excuse me, if I add, that the face of an acquaintance must be grateful to one of your gentle sex, in a place so unsettled and disorderly as this.”

  “An acquaintance!” repeated the unprotected bride.

  “I said an acquaintance; we know each other, surely,” returned Ralph, with emphasis; “you will believe me when I add, that I have seen the two men in the guard-room, which is at hand.”

  Cecil cast a glance behind her, and, with some alarm, perceived that she was separated from Meriton and the stranger. Before time was allowed for recollection, the old man approached her with courtly breeding that was rendered more striking by the coarseness, as well as negligence of his attire.

  “This is not a place for the niece of an English peer,” he said; “but I have long been at home in this warlike village, and will conduct you to a residence more suited to your sex and condition.”

  For an instant Cecil hesitated, but observing the wondering faces about her, and the intense curiosity with which all in the room suspended their several pursuits, to listen to each syllable, she timidly accepted his offered hand, suffering him to lead her, not only from the room, but the house, in profound silence. The door through which they left the building, was opposite to that by which she had entered, and when they found themselves in the open air, it was in a different street, and a short distance removed from the crowd of revellers already mentioned.

  “I have left two attendants behind me,” she said, “without whom ’tis impossible to proceed.”

  “As they are watched by armed men, you have no choice but to share their confinement, or to submit to the temporary separation,” returned the other, calmly. “Should his keepers discover the character of him who led you hither, his fate would be certain!”

  “His character!” repeated Cecil, again shrinking from the touch of the old man.

  “Surely my words are plain! I said his character. Is he not the deadly, obstinate enemy of liberty? And think you these countrymen of ours so dull as to suffer one like him, to go at large in their very camp!—No, no,” he muttered, with a low, but exulting laugh; “like a fool has he tempted his fate, and like a
dog shall he meet it! Let us proceed; the house is but a step from this, and you may summon him to your presence if you will.”

  Cecil was rather impelled by her companion, than induced to proceed, when, as he had said, they soon stopped before the door of a humble and retired building. An armed man paced along its front, while the lengthened shadow of another sentinel in the rear was every half-minute thrown far into the street, in confirmation of the watchfulness that was kept over those who dwelt within.

  “Proceed,” said Ralph, throwing open the outer-door, without hesitation. Cecil complied, but started at encountering another man, trailing a musket, as he paced the narrow passage that received her. Between this sentinel and Ralph, there seemed to exist a good understanding, for the latter addressed him with perfect freedom—

  “Has no order been yet received from Washington?” he asked.

  “None; and I rather conclude by the delay, that nothing very favourable is to be expected.”

  The old man muttered to himself, but passed on, and throwing open another door, said

  “Enter.”

  Again Cecil complied, the door closing on her at the instant; but before she had time to express either her wonder or her alarm, she was folded in the arms of her husband.

  * It has been said, that of all the historical characters, in the book, this of Lee is the only one well touched. The author answers, that when there was character he endeavoured to delineate it, and that when there was none, he believed it wisest not to invent. [1832]

  Chapter XXXI

  “Is she a Capulet?

  O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt.”

  Romeo.

  * * *

  “AH! LINCOLN! LINCOLN!” cried the weeping bride, gently extricating herself from the long embrace of Lionel, “at what a moment did you desert me!”

  “And how have I been punished, love! a night of phrenzy, and a morrow of regrets! How early have I been made to feel the strength of those ties which unite us;—unless, indeed, my own folly may have already severed them for ever!”

  “Truant! I know you! and shall hereafter weave a web, with woman’s art, to keep you in my toils! If you love me, Lionel, as I would fain believe, let all the past be forgotten. I ask—I wish, no explanation. You have been deceived, and that repentant eye assures me of your returning reason. Let us now speak only of yourself. Why do I find you thus guarded, more like a criminal than an officer of the crown?”

  “They have, indeed, bestowed especial watchfulness on my safety!”

  “How came you in their power! and why do they abuse their advantage?”

  “’Tis easily explained. Presuming on the tempestuousness of the night—what a bridal was ours, Cecil!”

  “’Twas terrible!” she answered, shuddering; then with a bright and instant smile, as if sedulous to chase every appear­ance of distrust or care from her countenance, she continued—“but I have no longer faith in omens, Lincoln! or, if one has been given, is not the awful fulfilment already come? I know not how you value the benedictions of a parting soul, Lionel, but to me there is holy consolation in knowing that my dying parent left her blessing on our sudden union!”

  Disregarding the hand, which, with gentle earnestness, she had laid upon his shoulder, he walked gloomily away, into a distant corner of the apartment.

  “Cecil, I do love you, as you would fain believe,” he said, “and I listen readily to your wish to bury the past in oblivion. But I leave my tale unfinished!—You know the night was such that none would choose, uselessly, to brave its fury—I attempted to profit by the storm, and availing myself of a flag, which is regularly granted to the simpleton, Job Pray, I left the town. Impatient—do I say impatient! borne along rather by a tempest of passions that mocked the feebler elements, we ventured too much—Cecil, I was not alone!”

  “I know it—I know it,” she said, hurriedly, though speaking barely above her breath—“you ventured too much?”—

  “And encountered a piquet that would not mistake a royal officer for an impoverished, though privileged idiot. In our anxiety we overlooked—believe me, dearest Cecil, that if you knew all—the scene I had witnessed—the motives which urged—they, at least, would justify this strange and seeming desertion.”

  “Did I doubt it, would I forget my condition, my recent loss, and my sex, to follow in the footsteps of one unworthy of my solicitude!” returned the bride, colouring as much with innate modesty, as with the power of her emotions. “Think not I come, with girlish weakness, to reproach you with any fancied wrongs! I am your wife, Major Lincoln; and as such would I serve you, at a moment when I know all the tenderness of the tie will most be needed. At the altar, and in the presence of my God, have I acknowledged the sacred duty; and shall I hesitate to discharge it because the eyes of man are on me!”

  “I shall go mad!—I shall go mad!” cried Lionel, in ungovernable mental anguish, as he paced the floor, in violent disorder.—“There are moments when I think that the curse, which destroyed the father, has already lighted on the son!”

  “Lionel!” said the soft, soothing voice of his companion, at his elbow, “is this to render me more happy!—the welcome you bestow on the confiding girl who has committed her happiness to your keeping! I see you relent, and will be more just to us both; more dutiful to your God! Now let us speak of your confinement. Surely, you are not suspected of any criminal designs in this rash visit to the camp of the Americans! ’Twere easy to convince their leaders that you are innocent of so base a purpose!”

  “’Tis difficult to evade the vigilance of those who struggle for liberty!” returned the low, calm voice of Ralph, who stood before them, unexpectedly. “Major Lincoln has too long listened to the councils of tyrants and slaves, and forgotten the land of his birth. If he would be safe, let him retract the error, while yet he may, with honour.”

  “Honour!” repeated Lionel, with unconcealed disdain—again pacing the room with swift and uneasy steps, without deigning any other notice of the unwelcome intruder. Cecil bowed her head, and sinking in a chair, concealed her face in her small muff, as if to exclude some horrid and fearful sight from her view.

  The momentary silence was broken by the sound of footsteps and of voices in the passage, and at the next instant the door of the room opening, Meriton was seen on its threshold. His appearance roused Cecil, who springing on her feet, beckoned him away, with a sort of phrenzied earnestness, exclaiming—

  “Not here! not here!—for the love of heaven, not here!”

  The valet hesitated, but catching a glimpse of his master, his attachment got the ascendency of his respect—

  “God be praised for this blessed sight, Master Lionel!” he cried—“’tis the happiest hour I have seen since I lost the look at the shores of old England! If ’twas only at Ravenscliffe, or in Soho, I should be the most contented fool in the three kingdoms! Ah, Master Lionel, let us get out of this province, into a country where there is no rebels; or any thing worse than King, Lords, and Commons!”

  “Enough now; for this time, worthy Meriton, enough!” interrupted Cecil, breathing with difficulty, in her eagerness to be heard.—“Go—return to the inn—the colleges—any where—do but go!”

  “Don’t send a loyal subject, Ma’am, again among the rebels, I desire to entreat of you. Such awful blasphemies, sir, as I heard while I was there! They spoke of his sacred majesty just as freely, sir, as if he had been a gentleman, like yourself. Joyful was the news of my release!”

  “And had it been a guard-room on the opposite shore,” said Ralph, “the liberties they used with your earthly monarch, would have been as freely taken with the King of kings!”

  “You shall remain then,” said Cecil, probably mistaking the look of disdain which Meriton bestowed on his aged fellow-voyager, for one of a very different meaning—“but not here. You have other apartments, Major Lincoln; let my attendants be
received there—you surely would not admit the menials to our interview!”

  “Why this sudden terror, love! Here, if not happy, you at least are safe. Go, Meriton, into the adjoining room; if wanted, there is admission through this door of communication.”

  The valet murmured some half-uttered sentences, of which only the emphatic word “genteel” was audible, while the direction of his discontented eye, sufficiently betrayed that Ralph was the subject of his meditations. The old man followed his footsteps, and the door of the passage soon closed on both, leaving Cecil standing, like a beautiful statue, in an attitude of thought. When the noise of her attendants, as they quietly entered the adjoining room, was heard, she breathed again, with a tremulous sigh, that seemed to raise a weight of apprehension from her heart.

  “Fear not for me, Cecil, and least of all for yourself,” said Lionel, drawing her to his bosom with fond solicitude—“my headlong rashness, or, rather, that fatal bane to the happiness of my house, the distempered feeling which you must have often seen and deplored, has indeed led me into a seeming danger. But I have a reason for my conduct, which avowed, shall lull the suspicions of even our enemies to sleep!”

  “I have no suspicions—no knowledge of any imperfections—no regrets, Lionel; nothing but the most ardent wishes for your peace of mind; and—if I might explain!—yes, now is a time—Lionel, kind, but truant Lionel”—