The Spy, Volume 2

by James Fenimore Cooper

  To be seen in their perfection, the Highlands must be passed immediately after the fall of the leaf. The picture is then in its chastest keeping, for neither the scanty foliage which the summer lends the trees, nor the snows of winter, are present to conceal the minutest objects from the eye. Chilling solitude is the characteristic of the scenery, nor is the mind at liberty, as in March, to look forward to a renewed vegetation that is soon to check, without improving the view.

  The day had been cloudy and cool, and thin fleecy clouds hung around the horizon, often promising to disperse, but as frequently disappointing the maid of a parting beam from the setting sun. At length a solitary gleam of light struck on the base of the mountain on which she was gazing, and moved gracefully up its side, until reaching the summit, it stood for a minute, forming a crown of glory to the sombre pile beneath. So strong were the rays, that what was before indistinct, now clearly opened to the view. With a feeling of awe at being thus unexpectedly admitted, as it were, into the secrets of that desart place, the maid gazed intently, until among the scattered trees and fantastic rocks, something like a rude structure was seen. It was low, and so obscured by the colour of its materials, that but for its roof, and the glittering of a window, must have escaped her notice.-- While yet lost in the astonishment created by discovering a habitation for man in such a spot, Frances, on moving her eyes, perceived another object that increased her wonder. It apparently was a human figure, but of singular mould and unusual deformity. It stood on the edge of a rock, but a little above the hut, and it was no difficult task for our heroine to fancy it was gazing at the vehicles that were ascending the side of the mountain beneath her. The distance, however, was too great for her to distinguish with precision. After looking at it a moment in breathless wonder, Frances had just come to the conclusion that it was ideal, and that what she saw was part of the rock itself, when the object moved swiftly from its position, and glided into the hut, at once removing any doubts as to the nature of either. Whether it was owing to the recent conversation that she had been holding with Katy, or some fancied resemblance that she discerned, Frances thought, as the figure vanished from her view, that it bore a marked likeness to Birch, moving under the weight of his pack. She continued to gaze in breathless silence towards the mysterious residence, when the gleam of light passed away, and at the same instant the tones of a bugle rang through the glens and hollows, and were re-echoed in every direction. Springing on her feet in alarm, the maid heard the trampling of horses, and directly a party, in the well known uniform of the Virginians, came sweeping around a point of rock near her, and drew up at a short distance from where she stood. Again the bugle sounded a lively strain, and before the agitated girl had time to rally her thoughts, Dunwoodie dashed by the party of dragoons, threw himself from his charger, and advanced to the side of his mistress.

  His manner was earnest and interested, but in a slight degree constrained. In a few words he explained to Frances, that he had been ordered up, with a party of Lawton’s men, in the absence of the captain himself, to attend the trial of Henry, which was fixed for the morrow, and that anxious for their safety in the rude passes of the mountain, he had ridden a mile or two in quest of the travellers. Frances explained, with blushing cheeks and trembling voice, the reason of her being in advance, and taught him to expect the arrival of her father momentarily. The constraint of his manner had, however, unwillingly on her part, communicated itself to her own deportment, and the approach of the chariot was a relief to both. The major handed her in, spoke a few words of encouragement to Mr. Wharton and Miss Peyton, and again mounting, led the way towards the plains of Fishkill, which broke on their sight on turning the rock, with the effect of enchantment. A short half hour brought them to the door of the farm-house, where the care of Dunwoodie had already prepared for their reception, and where Captain Wharton was anxiously expecting their arrival.

  CHAPTER X.

  “These limbs are strengthen’d with a soldier’s toil,

  Nor has this cheek been ever blanch’d with fear--

  But this sad tale of thine, enervates all

  Within me, that I once could boast as man--

  Chill, trembling agues seize upon my frame,

  And tears of childish sorrow pour apace

  Through scarred channels, that were mark’d by wounds.”

  Duo

  The friends of Henry Wharton, had placed so much reliance on his innocence, that they were unable to see the full danger of his situation. As the moment of trail, however, approached, the uneasiness of the youth himself increased; and after spending most of the night with his afflicted family, he awoke, on the following morning, from a short and disturbed slumber, to a clearer sense of his condition, and a survey of the means that were to extricate him from it with life. The rank of André, and the importance of the measures he was plotting, together with the powerful intercessions that had been made on his behalf, occasioned his execution to be stamped with greater notoriety than the ordinary events of the war. But spies were frequently arrested, and the instances that occurred of summary punishment for this crime, were numberless. These were facts that were well known to both Dunwoodie and the prisoner; and to their experienced judgments the preparations for the trial were indeed alarming. Notwithstanding their apprehensions, they succceded so far in concealing them, that neither Miss Peyton, nor Frances, was aware of their extent. A strong guard was stationed in the out-buildings of the farm-house where the prisoner was quartered, and several sentinels watched the avenues that approached the dwelling--one was constantly near the room of the British officer. A court was already detailed to examine into the circumstances, and upon their decision the fate of Henry rested.

  The moment at length arrived, and the different actors in the approaching investigation assembled. Frances experienced a feeling like suffocation, as, after taking her seat in the midst of her family, her eyes wandered over the groupe who were thus collected. The judges, three in number, sat by themselves, clad in the martial vestments of their profession, and maintained a gravity worthy of the occasion, and becoming in their rank. In the centre was a man of advanced years, but whose person continued rigidly erect, and whose whole exterior bore the stamp of early and long-tried military habits. This was the president of the court, and Frances, after taking a hasty and unsatisfactory view of his associates, turned to his benevolent countenance, as the harbinger of mercy to her brother. There was a melting and subdued expression in the features of the veteran, that, contrasted with the rigid decency and composure of the others, could not fail to attract notice. His attire was strictly in conformity to the prescribed rules of the service to which he belonged; but his fingers trifled, with a kind of convulsive and unconscious motion, with the crape that entwined the hilt of the sword on which his body partly reclined, and which, like himself, seemed a relic of older times. There were the workings of an unquiet soul within; but his commanding and martial front blended awe with the pity that its exhibition excited. His associates were officers selected from the eastern troops who held the fortresses of West-Point and the adjacent passes--they were men who had attained the meridian of life, and the eye sought in vain the expression of any passion or emotion, on which it might seize as an indication of human infirmity. There was a mild, but a grave intellectual reserve. If there was no ferocity or harshness to chill, neither was there compassion or interest to attract. They were men who had long acted under the dominion of a prudent reason, and whose feelings seemed trained to a perfect submission to their judgments.

  Before these arbiters of his fate Henry Wharton was ushered, under the custody of two armed men. A profound and awful silence succeeded his entrance, and the blood of Frances chilled in her veins. There was but little of pomp in the preparations to impress her imagination, but the reserved, business-like air of the whole scene seemed indeed as if the destinies of life awaited on the judgment of these men. Two of the judges sat in grave reserve, fixing their inquiring eyes on the subject of th
eir investigation; but the president continued gazing around in uneasy convulsive motions of the muscles of the face, that indicated a restlessness foreign to his years and duty.--It was Colonel Singleton, who, but the day before, had learnt the fate of Isabella, but who proudly stood forth in the discharge of a duty that his country required at his hands. The silence and the expectation in every eye, at length struck him, and, making an effort to collect himself, he spoke in the deep tones of one used to authority--

  “Bring forth the prisoner.”

  The sentinels dropped their bayonet points towards the judges, and Henry Wharton advanced with a firm step into the centre of the apartment. All was now anxiety and eager curiosity. Frances turned for a moment, in grateful emotion, as the deep and perturbed breathing of Dunwoodie reached her ear; but her brother again concentrated all her interest into one feeling of intense care. In the back ground were arranged the inmates of the family who owned the dwelling, and behind them again was a row of shining faces of ebony, glistening with pleased wonder at the scene. Amongst these was the faded lustre of Cæsar Thompson’s countenance.

  “You are said,” continued the president, “to be Henry Wharton, a Captain in his Britannic Majesty’s 60th regiment of foot.”

  “I am.”

  “I like your candour, sir; it partakes of the honourable feelings of a soldier, and cannot fail to impress your judges favourably.”

  “It would be prudent,” said one of his companions, “to advise the prisoner that he is bound to answer no more than he deems necessary; although we are a court of martial law, yet, in this respect, we own the principles of all free governments.”

  A nod of approbation, from the silent member, was bestowed on this remark, and the president proceeded with caution--referring to the minutes he held in his hand.

  “It is in accusation against you, that, being an officer of the enemy, on the 29th of October last, you passed the picquets of the American army at the White Plains, in disguise, whereby you are suspected of views hostile to the interests of America; and have subjected yourself to the punishment of a Spy.”

  The mild but steady tones of the speaker’s voice, as he slowly repeated the substance of this charge, sunk to the hearts of many of the listeners. The accusation was so plain, the facts so limited, the proof so obvious, and the penalty so well established, that escape at once seemed impossible. But Henry replied, with earnest grace--

  “That I passed your picquets, in disguise, is true, but”--

  “Peace,” interrupted the president; “the usages of war are stern enough, in themselves; you need not aid them to your own condemnation.”

  “The prisoner can retract that declaration, if he pleases,” remarked another judge. “His confession, which must be taken, goes fully to prove the charge.”

  “I retract nothing that is true,” said Henry, proudly.

  The two nameless judges heard him in silent composure, yet there was no exultation mingled with their gravity. The president now appeared, however, to take new interest in the scene; and, with an animation unlooked for in his years, he cried--

  “Your sentiment is noble, sir. I only regret that a youthful soldier should so far be misled by loyalty, as to lend himself to the purposes of deceit.”

  “Deceit!” echoed Wharton; “I thought it prudent to guard against capture from my enemies.”

  “A soldier, Captain Wharton,” exclaimed the veteran, in proud exultation, “should never meet his enemy but openly and with arms in his hands. For fifty years have I served two kings of England, and now my native land; but never did I approach a foe, unless under the light of the sun, and with honest notice that an enemy was nigh.”

  “You are at liberty to explain what your motives were, in entering the ground held by our army, in disguise;” said the other judge, with a slight movement of the muscles of his mouth.

  “I am the son of this aged man, before you,” continued Henry. “It was to visit him that I encountered the danger. Besides, the country below is seldom held by your troops, and its very name implies a right to either party to move at pleasure over its territory.”

  “Its name, as a neutral ground, is unauthorised by law; and is an appellation that originates with the condition of the country. But wherever an army goes, it carries its rights along, and the first is, the ability to protect itself.”

  “I am no casuist, sir,” returned the youth, earnestly; “but I feel that my father is entitled to my affection, and would encounter greater risks to prove it to him, in his old age.”

  “A very commendable spirit,” cried the veteran; “come, gentlemen, this business brightens. I confess, at first, it was very bad; but no man can censure him for desiring to see his parent.”

  “And have you proof that such only was your intention?”

  “Yes--here,” said Henry, admitting a ray of hope; “here is proof--my father, my sister, Major Dunwoodie, all know it.”

  “Then, indeed,” returned his immoveable judge, “we may be able to save you. It would be well, sir, to examine further into this business.”

  “Certainly,” said the president with alacrity; “let the elder Mr. Wharton approach and take the oath.”

  The father made an effort at composure, and advancing with a feeble step, complied with the necessary forms of the court.

  “You are the father of the prisoner?” said Colonel Singleton, in a subdued voice, after pausing a moment in respect to the agitation of the witness.

  “He is my only son.”

  “And what, sir, do you know of his visit to your house, on the 29th day of October last?”

  “He came, as he told you, sir, to see me and his sisters.”

  “Was he in disguise?” asked the other judge.

  “He did not wear the uniform of the 60th.”

  “To see his sisters too!” said the president, with great emotion. “Have you daughters, sir?”

  “I have two--both are in this house.”

  “Had he a wig?” continued the officer.

  “There was some such thing, I do believe, upon his head.”

  “And how long had you been separated?” asked the president.

  “One year and two months.”

  “Did he wear a loose great coat of coarse materials?” inquired the officer, referring to the paper that contained the charges.

  “There was an over-coat.”

  “And you think that it was to see you, only, that he came out?”

  “And my daughters.”

  “A boy of spirit,” whispered the president to his silent comrade. “I see but little harm in such a freak--’twas imprudent, but then it was kind.”

  “Do you know that your son was entrusted with no commission from Sir Henry Clinton, and that the visit to you was not merely a cloak to other designs.”

  “How can I know it?” said Mr. Wharton, in alarm; “would Sir Henry entrust me with such a business?”

  “Know you any thing of this pass?” exhibiting the paper that Dunwoodie had retained when Wharton was taken.

  “Nothing--upon my honour, nothing,” cried the father, shrinking from the paper as from contagion.

  “But, on your oath?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you other testimony; this does not avail you. Captain Wharton. You have been taken in a situation where your life is forfeited-- the labour of proving your innocence rests with yourself; take time to reflect, and be cool.”

  There was a frightful calmness in the manner of this judge that appalled the prisoner. In the sympathy of Colonel Singleton, he could easily lose sight of his danger; but the obdurate and collected air of the others, was ominous of his fate. He continued silent, casting expressive glances towards his friend. Dunwoodie understood the appeal, and offered himself as a witness. He was sworn and desired to relate what he knew. His statement did not materially alter the case, and Dunwoodie felt that it could not. To him personally but little was known, and that little rather militated against the safety of Hen
ry than otherwise. His account was listened to in silence, and the significant shake of the head that was made by the silent member, spoke too plainly what effect it had produced.

  “Still you think that the prisoner had no other object than what he has avowed,” said the president, when he had ended.

  “None other, I will pledge my life,” cried the Major, with fervour.

  “Will you swear it,” asked the immoveable judge.

  “How can I? God alone can tell the heart; but I have known this gentleman from a boy; deceit never formed part of his character. He is above it.”

  “You say that he escaped, and was retaken in open arms,” said the president.

  “He was; nay, he received a wound in the combat. You see he yet moves his arms with difficulty. Would he, think you, sir, have tru ted himself where he could fall again into our hands, unless conscious of his innocence?”

  “Would André have deserted a field of battle, Major Dunwoodie, had he encountered such an event near Tarry-town?” asked his deliberate examiner. “Is it not natural to youth to seek glory?”

  “Do you call this glory?” exclaimed the Major, “an ignominious death, and a tarnished name.”

  “Major Dunwoodie,” returned the other, still with inveterate gravity, “you have acted nobly; your duty has been arduous and severe, but it has been faithfully and honourably discharged--our’s must not be less so.”

  During this examination, the most intense interest prevailed amongst the hearers. With that kind of feeling which could not separate the principle from the cause, most of the auditors thought that if Dunwoodie failed to move the hearts of Henry’s judges, no other possessed the power. Cæsar thrust his mishapen form forward; and his features, so expressive of the concern he felt, and so different from the vacant curiosity pictured in the countenances of the other blacks, caught the attention of the silent judge. For the first time he spoke--