James Fenimore Cooper's Five Novels

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Beldame!” he shouted, “I have thee now! Bring hither the book! the blessed, holy word of God! Let her swear, let her swear! Let her damn her perjured soul, in impious oaths!”—

  “Monster! release the woman!” cried Lionel, advancing to the assistance of the struggling penitent; “thou, too, hoary-headed wretch, hast deceived me!”

  “Lincoln! Lincoln!” shrieked Cecil, “stay that unnatural hand! you raise it on thy father!”

  Lionel staggered back to the wall, where he stood motionless, gasping for breath. Left, to work his own frantic will, the maniac would speedily have terminated the sorrows of the wretched woman, had not the door been burst open with a crash, and the stranger who was left by the cunning of the madman, in the custody of the Americans, rushed into the room.

  “I know your yell, my gentle baronet!” cried the aroused keeper, for such in truth he was, “and I have a mark for your malice, which would have gladly had me hung! But I have not followed you from kingdom to kingdom, from Europe to America, to be cheated by a lunatic!”

  It was apparent, by the lowering look of the fellow, how deeply he resented the danger he had just escaped, as he sprang forward to seize his prisoner. Ralph abandoned his hold the instant this hated object appeared, and he darted upon the breast of the other with the undaunted fury that a lion, at bay, would turn upon its foe. The struggle was fierce and obstinate. Hoarse oaths, and the most savage execrations burst from the incensed keeper, and were blended with the wildest ravings of madness from Ralph. The excited powers of the maniac at length prevailed, and his antagonist fell under their irresistible impulse. Quicker than thought, Ralph was seen hovering on the chest of his victim, while he grasped his throat with fingers of iron.

  “Vengeance is holy!” cried the maniac, bursting into a shout of horrid laughter, at his triumph, and shaking his gray locks till they flowed in wild confusion around his glowing eye-balls; “Urim and Thummim* are the words of glory! Liberty is the shout! die, damned dog! die like the fiends in darkness, and leave freedom to the air!”

  By a mighty effort the gasping man released his throat a little from the gripe that nearly throttled him, and cried, with difficulty—

  “For the love of heavenly justice, come to my aid! will you see a man thus murdered?”

  But he addressed himself to the sympathies of the listeners in vain. The females had hid their faces, in natural horror; the maimed Polwarth was yet without his artificial limb; and Lionel still looked upon the savage fray with a vacant eye. At this moment of despair, the hand of the keeper was seen plunging, with violence, into the side of Ralph, who sprang upon his feet at the third blow, laughing immoderately, but with sounds so wild and deep, that they seemed to shake his inmost soul. His antagonist profited by the occasion, and darted from the room with the headlong precipitation of guilt.

  The countenance of the maniac, as he now stood, struggling between life and death, changed with each fleeting impulse. The blood flowed freely from wounds in his side, and as the fatal tide ebbed away, a ray of passing reason lighted his ghastly features. His inward laugh entirely ceased. The glaring eye-balls became stationary, and his look, gradually softening, settled on the appalled pair, who took the deepest interest in his welfare. A calm and decent expression possessed those lineaments which had just exhibited the deepest marks of the wrath of God. His lips moved in a vain effort to speak; and stretching forth his arms, in the attitude of benediction, like the mysterious shadow of the chapel, he fell backward on the body of the lifeless and long-neglected Job, himself perfectly dead.

  * It is a singular coincidence, that while the author was writing this sentence, a privileged and harmless, but decided madman came into his room. He was excited, at the moment, and uttered the precise words of the text. [1832]

  Chapter XXXIV

  “I saw an aged man upon his bier,

  His hair was thin and white, and on his brow

  A record of the cares of many a year;

  Cares that were ended and forgotten now.

  And there was sadness round, and faces bow’d,

  And woman’s tears fell fast, and children wail’d aloud.”

  Bryant.

  * * *

  AS THE DAY advanced, the garrison of Boston was put in motion. The same bustle, the same activity, the same gallant bearing in some, and dread reluctance in others, were exhibited, as on the morning of the fight of the preceding summer. The haughty temper of the royal commander could ill brook the bold enterprise of the colonists; and, at an early hour, orders were issued to prepare to dislodge them. Every gun that could be brought to bear upon the hills was employed to molest the Americans, who calmly continued their labours, while shot were whistling around them on every side. Towards evening a large force was embarked, and conveyed to the castle. Washington appeared on the heights, in person, and every military evidence of the intention of a resolute attack on one part, and of a stout resistance on the other, became apparent.

  But the fatal experience of Breed’s had taught a lesson that was still remembered. The same leaders were to be the principal actors in the coming scene, and it was necessary to use the remnants of many of the very regiments which had bled so freely on the former occasion. The half-trained husbandmen of the colonies were no longer despised; and the bold operations of the past winter, had taught the English generals that, as subordination increased among their foes, their movements were conducted with a more vigorous direction of their numbers. The day was accordingly wasted in preparations. Thousands of men slept on their arms that night, in either army, in the expectation of rising, on the following morning, to be led to the field of slaughter.

  It is not improbable, from the tardiness of their movements, that a large majority of the royal forces did not regret the providential interposition, which certainly saved them torrents of blood, and not improbably, the ignominy of a defeat. One of the sudden tempests of the climate arose in the night, driving before it men and beasts, to seek protection, in their imbecility, from the more powerful warring of the elements. The golden moments were lost; and, after enduring so many privations, and expending so many lives, in vain, Howe sullenly commenced his arrangements to abandon a town, on which the English ministry had, for years, lavished their indignation, with all the acrimony, and, as it now seemed, with the impotency of a blind revenge.

  To carry into effect this sudden and necessary determination, was not the work of an hour. As it was the desire of the Americans, however, to receive their town back again as little injured as possible, they forbore to push the advantage they possessed, by occupying those heights, which, in a great measure, commanded the anchorage, as well as a new and vulnerable face of the defences of the king’s army. While the semblance of hostilities was maintained by an irregular and impotent cannonade, conducted with so little spirit as to wear the appearance of being intended only to amuse, one side was diligently occupied in preparing to depart, and the other was passively awaiting the moment when they might peaceably repossess their own. It is unnecessary to remind the reader, that the entire command of the sea, by the British, would have rendered any serious attempt to arrest their movements, perfectly futile.

  In this manner a week was passed, after the tempest had abated—the place exhibiting throughout this period, all the hurry and bustle, the joy and distress, that so unlooked-for an event was likely to create.

  Toward the close of one of those busy and stirring days, a short funeral train was seen issuing from a building which had long been known as the residence of one of the proudest families in the province. Above the outer-door of the mansion was suspended a gloomy hatchment, charged with the ‘courant’ deer of Lincoln, encircled by the usual mementos of mortality, and bearing the rare symbol of the “bloody-hand.”—This emblem of heraldic grief, which was never adopted in the provinces, except at the death of one of high importance, a custom that has long since disappeared with the usag
es of the monarchy, had caught the eyes of a few idle boys, who alone were sufficiently unoccupied, at that pressing moment, to note its exhibition. With the addition of these truant urchins, the melancholy procession took its way toward the neighbouring church-yard of the king’s chapel.

  The large bier was covered by a pall so ample that it swept the stones of the threshold, while entering into the body of the church. Here it was met by the divine we have had occasion to mention more than once, who gazed, with a look of strange interest, at the solitary and youthful mourner, that closely followed in his dark weeds. The ceremony, however, proceeded with the usual solemnity, and the attendants slowly moved deeper into the sacred edifice. Next to the young man, came the well-known persons of the British commander-in-chief, and his quick-witted and favourite lieutenant. Between them, walked an officer of inferior rank, who, notwithstanding his maimed condition, had been able, by the deliberation of the march, to beguile the ears of his companions, to the very moment of meeting the clergyman, with some tale of no little interest, and great apparent mystery. The remainder of the train, which consisted only of the family of the two generals, and a few menials, came last, if we except the idlers, who stole curiously in their footsteps.

  When the service was ended, the same private communication was resumed between the two chieftains, and their companion, and continued until they arrived at the open vault, in a distant corner of the enclosure. Here the low conversation ended, and the eye of Howe, which had hitherto been riveted in deep attention on the speaker, began to wander in the direction of the dangerous hills occupied by his enemies. The interruption seemed to have broken the charm of the secret conversation, and the anxious countenances of both the leaders betrayed how soon their thoughts had wandered from a tale of great private distress, to their own heavier cares and duties.

  The bier was placed before the opening, and the assistants of the sexton advanced to perform their office. When the pall was removed, to the evident amazement of most of the spectators, two coffins were exposed to view. One was clothed in black-velvet, studded with silver nails, and ornamented after the richest fashions of human pride, while the other lay in the simple nakedness of the clouded wood. On the breast of the first, rose a heavy silver plate, bearing a long inscription, and decorated with the usual devices of heraldry; and on the latter, were simply carved on the lid, the two initial letters J. P.

  The impatient looks of the English generals intimated to Dr. Liturgy the value of every moment, and in less time than we consume in relating it, the bodies of the high-descended man of wealth, and of his nameless companion, were lowered into the vault, and left to decay, in silent contact, with that of the woman who, in life, had been so severe a scourge to both. After a hesitation of a single moment, in deference to the young mourner, the gentlemen present, perceiving that he manifested a wish to remain, quitted the place in a body, with the exception of the maimed officer, already mentioned, whom the reader has at once recognised to be Polwarth. When the men had replaced the stone above the mouth of the vault, securing it by a stout bar of iron and a heavy lock, they delivered the key to the principal actor in the scene. He received it in silence, and dropping gold into their hands, motioned to them to depart.

  In another instant a careless observer would have thought that Lionel and his friend were the only living possessors of the church-yard. But under the adjoining wall, partly hid from observation by the numerous head-stones, was the form of a woman, bowed to the earth, while her figure was concealed by the cloak she had gathered shapelessly about her. As soon as the gentlemen perceived they were alone, they slowly advanced to the side of this desolate being.

  Their approaching footsteps were not unheeded, though, instead of facing those who so evidently wished to address her, she turned to the wall, and began to trace, with unconscious fingers, the letters of a tablet in slate, which was let into the brick-work, to mark the position of the tomb of the Lechmeres.

  “We can do no more,” said the young mourner—“all now rests with a mightier hand than any of earth.”

  The squalid limb that was thrust from beneath the red garment, trembled, but it still continued its unmeaning employment.

  “Sir Lionel Lincoln speaks to you,” said Polwarth, on whose arm the youthful baronet leaned.

  “Who!” shrieked Abigail Pray, casting aside her covering, and baring those sunken features, on which misery had made terrible additional inroads, within a few days—“I had forgotten—I had forgotten! the son succeeds the father; but the mother must follow her child to the grave!”

  “He is honourably interred with those of his blood, and by the side of one who loved his simple integrity!”

  “Yes, he is better lodged in death, than he was in life! Thank God! he can never know cold nor hunger more!”

  “You will find that I have made a provision for your future comfort; and I trust, that the close of your life will be happier than its prime.”

  “I am alone,” said the woman, hoarsely. “The old will avoid me, and the young will look upon me in scorn! Perjury and revenge lie heavy on my soul!”

  The young baronet was silent, but Polwarth assumed the right to reply—

  “I will not pretend to assert,” said the worthy captain, “that these are not both wicked companions; but I have no doubt you will find somewhere in the Bible, a suitable consolation for each particular offence. Let me recommend to you a hearty diet, and I’ll answer for an easy conscience. I never knew the prescription fail. Look about you in the world—does your well-fed villain feel remorse! No; it’s only when his stomach is empty that he begins to think of his errors! I would also suggest the expediency of commencing soon, with something substantial, as you show, altogether, too much bone, at present, for a thriving condition. I would not wish to say any thing distressing, but we both of us may remember a case, where the nourishment came too late.”

  “Yes, yes, it came too late!” murmured the conscience-stricken woman—“all comes too late! even penitence, I fear!”

  “Say not so,” observed Lionel; “you do outrage to the promises of one who never spoke false.”

  Abigail stole a fearful glance at him, which expressed the secret terror of her soul, as she half whispered—

  “Who witnessed the end of Madam Lechmere! did her spirit pass in peace?”

  Sir Lionel, again, remained profoundly silent.

  “I thought it,” she continued—“’tis not a sin to be forgotten on a death-bed! To plot evil, and call on God, aloud, to look upon it! Ay! and to madden a brain, and strip a soul like his to nakedness! Go,” she added, beckoning them away with earnestness—“ye are young and happy; why should ye linger near the grave! Leave me, that I may pray among the tombs! If any thing can smooth the bitter moment, it is prayer.”

  Lionel dropped the key he held in his hand at her feet, and said, before he left her—

  “Yon vault is closed for ever, unless, at your request, it should be opened at some future time, to place you by the side of your son. The children of those who built it, are already gathered there, with the exception of two, who go to the other hemisphere to leave their bones. Take it, and may heaven forgive you, as I do.”

  He let fall a heavy purse by the side of the key, and, without uttering more, he again took the arm of Polwarth, and together they left the place. As they turned through the gate-way, into the street, each stole a glance at the distant woman. She had risen to her knees; her hands had grasped a head-stone, and her face was bowed nearly to the earth, while by the writhing of her form, and the humility of her attitude, it was apparent that her spirit struggled powerfully with the Lord for mercy.

  Three days afterwards, the Americans entered, triumphantly, on the retiring footsteps of the royal army. The first among them, who hastened to visit the graves of their fathers, found the body of a woman, who had, seemingly, died under the severity of the season. She had unlocked the vault, in
a vain effort to reach her child, and there her strength had failed her. Her limbs were decently stretched on the faded grass, while her features were composed, exhibiting in death the bland traces of that remarkable beauty which had distinguished and betrayed her youth. The gold still lay neglected, where it had fallen.

  The amazed townsmen avoided this spectacle with horror, rushing into other places to gaze at the changes and the destruction of their beloved birth-place. But a follower of the royal army, who had lingered to plunder, and who had witnessed the interview between the officers and Abigail, shortly succeeded them. He lifted the flag, and lowering the body, closed the vault; then hurling away the key, he seized the money, and departed.

  The slate has long since mouldered from the wall; the sod has covered the stone, and few are left who can designate the spot where the families of Lechmere and Lincoln were wont to inter their dead.

  Sir Lionel and Polwarth proceeded, in the deepest silence, to the long-wharf, where a boat received them. They were rowed to the much-admired frigate, that was standing off-and-on, under easy sail, waiting their arrival. On her decks they met Agnes Danforth, with her eyes softened by tears, though a rich flush mantled on her cheeks, at witnessing the compelled departure of those invaders she had never loved.

  “I have only remained to give you a parting-kiss, cousin Lionel,” said the frank girl, affectionately saluting him, “and now shall take my leave, without repeating those wishes that you know are so often conveyed in my prayers.”