“Laugh at you, Linwood! I could cry with joy if I could give my place to you; as it is, I must hasten my preparations. I have obtained leave to take Kisel with me.”
“Kisel! heaven forefend, Eliot. Do you know what ridicule such a valet-de-place as Kisel will call down on your head from those lordly British officers?”
“Yes, I have thought of that, and it would be sheer affectation to pretend to be indifferent to it; but I can bear it. Providence has cast Kisel upon my protection, and if I leave him he will be sure to run his witless head into some scrape that will give me ten times more trouble than his attendance.”
“Well, as you please; you gentle people are always wilful.” After a few moments’ thoughtful silence, he added, “How long before you start, Eliot?”
“The general said it might be two hours before my instructions and passports were made out.”
“It will be dark then, and,” added Linwood, after a keen survey of the heavens, “I think, very dark.”
“Like enough; but that is not so very agreeable a prospect as one would infer from the tone of your voice.”
“Pardon me, my dear fellow; it was New-York I was thinking of, and not any inconvenience you might encounter from the obscurity of the night Your passports are not made out?”
“Not yet.”
“Do me a favour, then—let Kisel ride my gray. I cannot endure the thought of the harlequin spectacle you’ll furnish forth, riding down the Broadway with your squire mounted on Beauty; besides, the animal is not equal to the expedition.”
129“Thank you, Linwood. I accept your kindness as freely as you offer it. You have relieved me of my only serious embarrassment. Now get your letters ready; any thing unsealed (my orders are restricted to that) I will take charge of, and deliver at your father’s door.”
“My father’s door!” exclaimed Linwood, snapping his fingers with a sort of wild exultation that made Eliot stare, “oh, what a host of images those words call up! but as to the letters, there is no pleasure in unsealed ones; I sent a bulletin of my health to Belle yesterday; I have an engagement that will occupy me till after your departure; so farewell, and good luck to you, Eliot.” The friends shook hands and parted.
The twilight was fading into night when Eliot was ready for his departure. To his great vexation Kisel was missing; and he was told he had ridden forward, and had left word that he would await his master at a certain point about three miles on their way. The poor fellow’s habits were so desultory that they never excited surprise, though they would have been intolerable to one less kind-tempered than Eliot Lee. He found him at the point named. He had reined his horse up against the fence, and was awaiting his master, as Eliot saw, for he could just descry the outline of his person lying back to back to the horse, his legs encircling the animal’s neck.
“Sit up, Kisel,” said his master, in an irritated tone; “remember you are riding a gentleman’s horse that’s not accustomed to such tricks. And now I tell you, once for all, that unless you behave yourself quietly and reasonably, I will send you adrift.”
Kisel whistled. He always either replied by a whistle or tears to Eliot’s reproof, and the whistle now, as usual, was followed by a fit of sulkiness. The night was misty and very dark. Kisel, in spite of sundry kind overtures from his master, remained doggedly silent, or only answered in a muttered monosyllable. 130Thus they travelled all night, merely stopping at the farmhouses to which they had been directed to refresh their horses. On these occasions Kisel was unusually zealous in performing the office of groom, and seemed to have made a most useful transfer of the nimbleness of his tongue to his hands.
The dawn found them within the enemy’s lines, at twenty miles distance from the city of New-York, and in sight of a British post designated in their instructions where they were to stop, exhibit their flag of truce, show their passports, and obtain others to the city. “Now, Kisel,” said Eliot, “you must have done with your fooleries; you will disgrace me if you do not behave like a man; pull up your cap—do not bury your face so in the collar of your coat—sit upright.”
Kisel threw the reins upon his horse’s neck, affected to arrange his cap and coat, and in doing so dropped his whip. This obliged him to dismount and go back a few yards, which he did as if he had clogs at his heels. In the meantime Eliot spurred on his horse, and rode up to the door where the enemy’s guard was stationed. His passports were examined, and returned to him countersigned. He passed on; and the guard was giving a cursory glance at the attendant, when it seemed to strike him there was some discrepance between the description and the actual person. “Stop, my man,” said he, “let’s have another glance. ‘Crooked, ill-made person;’ yes, crooked enough—‘sandy hair;’ yes, by Jove, sandy as a Scotchman’s—‘gray eyes, small and sunken;’ gray to be sure, but neither small nor sunken.”
“Well, now,” said Kisel, with beseeching simplicity, and looking eagerly after Eliot, who was watering his horse at a brook a few rods in advance of him; “well, now, I say, don’t hender me—smallness is according as people thinks. My eye ant so big as an ox’s, nor tant so small as a mole’s; and folks will dispute all the way ’twixt the two: so what signifies keeping captain waiting?”
131“Well, well, it must be right—go on. I don’t know, though,” muttered the inquisitor, as Kisel rode off at a sharp trot—“d—n these Yankees, they’d cheat the devil. The passport said, ‘a turn-up nose’—this fellow’s is as straight as an arrow. Here, halloo, sirs,—back.” But Kisel, instead of heeding the recall, though seconded by his master, galloped forward, making antic gestures, laughing and shouting; and Eliot, bitterly repenting his indiscretion in bringing him, retraced his steps. He found the inspector’s faculties all awakened by the suspicion that he had been outwitted. “My friend,” said Eliot, reproducing his passports, “this detention is unnecessary and discourteous. You see I am, beyond a question, the person here described; and I give you my honour that my companion is the attendant specified. He is a fellow of weak wits, as you may see by his absurd conduct, who can impose on no one, much less on a person of your keenness.”
“That is to say, if he is he. But I suppose you know, sir, that a wolf can wear a sheep’s clothing. There are so many rebels that have connexions in the city, outside friends to his majesty, that we are obliged to keep a sharp look-out.”
“Certainly, my friend: all that you say is perfectly reasonable, and I respect you for doing your duty. But you must be satisfied now, and will have the goodness to permit me to proceed.”
The man was conciliated; and after making an entry in his note-book, he again returned the passports. Eliot put spurs to his horse; and as the man gazed after him, he said, “A noble-looking youth. The Almighty has written his passport on that face; but that won’t serve him now-a-days without endorsements. That other fellow I doubt. Well, I’ll just forward these notes I have taken down to Colonel Robertson, and he’ll be on the look-out.”
In the meantime Eliot followed Kisel at full speed; but, after approaching him within a few yards, he perceived he did 132not gain an inch on him; and, apprehensive that such forced riding might injure Linwood’s horse, or, at any rate, that the smoking sides of both the steeds would excite suspicion, he reined his in, and wondered what new demon had taken possession of Kisel; for, while he now rode at a moderate pace, he had the mortification of seeing that Kisel exactly, and with an accuracy he had never manifested in any other operation, measured his horse’s speed by his master’s, so as to preserve an undeviating distance from him. Thus they proceeded till they approached Kingsbridge, where a British picket was stationed. Here Kisel managed so as to come up with his horse abreast to Eliot’s. The horse seemed to take alarm at the colours that were flying from the British flagstaff, and reared, whirled around, and curvetted, so as to require all his rider’s adroitness to keep on his back. Meanwhile the passports were being examined, and they were suffered to proceed without a particular investigation.
They had passed
the bridge, and beyond observation, when Eliot, who was still in advance of his attendant, turned suddenly round with the intention of trying the whole force of a moral battery; but he was surprised by a coup de main that produced a sudden and not very agreeable shock to his ideas.
His follower’s slouched and clownish attitude was gone; and in its place an erect and cavalier bearing. His head was raised from the muffler that had half buried it—his cap pushed back, and from beneath shone the bright laughing eye of Herbert Linwood.
“Now, Eliot, my dear fellow,” he said, stretching out his hand to him, “do not look so, as if you liked the knave less than the fool.”
“If I do look so, Linwood, it is because fools are easier protected than knaves. It is impossible to foresee what may be the consequence of this rash business.”
“Oh, hang the consequence. I wish you would get over 133that Yankee fashion of weighing every possible danger; you are such a cautious race.”
“Granted, Linwood, we are; and I think it will take all my caution to get us out of a scrape that your heroism has plunged us into.”
The first shaft of Linwood’s petulance had glanced off from the shield of his friend’s good-temper, and he had not another. “I confess,” he said, in an altered voice, “that the boldness is worse than questionable that involves others in our own danger. But consider my temptations, and then try, my dear fellow, to pardon my selfishness. I have lived three years in exile—I, who never before passed a night out of my father’s house. I am suffering the wretchedness of his displeasure; and am absolutely famishing for the faces and voices of home. I could live a week upon the ticking of the old hall-clock.”
“But what satisfaction can you expect, Linwood? You have always told me you believed your father’s displeasure was invincible—”
“Oh, I don’t know that. His bark is worse than his bite. I cannot calculate probabilities. One possibility outweighs a million of them. I shall at any rate see my sister—my peerless, glorious sister, and my mother. And, after all, what is the risk? If you did not detect me, others will not, surely.”
“You did not give me a chance.”
“Nor will I them. The only catastrophe I fear is the possibility of General Washington finding me out. But it was deused crabbed of him not to give me the commission. He ought to know that a man can’t live on self-sacrifice.”
“General Washington requires no more than he performs.”
“That is true enough; but is it reasonable to require of children to bear the burdens of men?—of common men to do the deeds of heroes?”
134“I believe there is no limit, but in our will, to our moral power.”
“Pshaw!—and I believe the moral power of each individual can be measured as accurately as his stature. But we are running our heads into metaphysics, and shall get lost in a fog.”
“A New-England fog, Linwood?”
“They prevail there,” he answered, with a quizzical smile. “But we are wandering from the point. I really have taken all possible precautions to keep my secret. I obtained leave for four days’ absence on the pretext that I was going up the river on my private business. The only danger arises from my having been compelled to make a confidant of Kisel.”
“That occurred to me. How in the name of wonder did you manage him?”
“Oh, I conjured in your name. I made him believe that your safety depended on his implicitly obeying my directions; so I obtained his holyday suit (which you must confess is a complete disguise), and sent him on a fool’s errand up the river.”
The friends entered the city by passing the pickets at the Bowery. They were admitted without scruple:—letting animals into a cage is a very different affair from letting them out. At Linwood’s suggestion they crossed into Queen-street. That great mart, now stored with the products of the commercial world, and supplying millions from its packed warehouses, was then chiefly occupied by the residences of the provincial gentry. Linwood had resumed his mufflers and his clownish air; but the true man from the false exterior growled forth many an anathema as he passed house after house belonging to the whig absentees—his former familiar haunts—now occupied, and, as he thought, desecrated by British officers, or resident royalists whose loyalty was thus cheaply paid.
135“Look not to the right nor left, I pray you, Linwood,” said Eliot; “you are now in danger of being recognised. We are to stop at Mrs. Billings’s, in Broad-street.”
“Just above my father’s house,” replied Linwood, in a sad tone. They rode on briskly; for they perceived that Eliot’s American uniform and grotesque attendant attracted observation. They had entered Broad-street, and were near a large double house, with the carving about the doors and windows that distinguished the more ambitious edifices of the provincialists. Two horses, equipped for their riders, stood at the door, and a black servant in faded livery beside them. The door opened; and a gentleman of lofty stature, attended by a young lady, came forth. She patted the animal that awaited her, and sprang into the saddle. “It must be Isabella Linwood!” thought Eliot, turning his asking eye to his companion, who, he now perceived, had reined in his horse towards the flagging opposite that where the parties who had attracted his observation were. “He is right and careful for once,” thought Eliot. That Eliot would have thought it both right and inevitable to have indulged himself in a nearer survey of the beautiful young lady, we do not doubt; but as he again turned, her horse suddenly reared his hind legs in the air. Her father screamed—there were several persons passing—no one dared approach the animal, who was whirling, floundering, and kicking furiously. Some, gazing at Miss Linwood, exclaimed, “She’ll be dashed to pieces!”—and others, “Lord, how she sits!” She did sit bravely; her face colourless as marble, and her dark eyes flashing fire. Eliot and Linwood instinctively dismounted, and at the risk of their lives rushed to her rescue; and, at one breath’s intermission of the kicking, stood on either side of the animal’s head. She was an old acquaintance and favourite of Linwood, and with admirable presence of mind (inspiration he afterward called it) he addressed her in a loud tone, in his accustomed phrase, 136“Jennet—Jennet, softly—softly!” The animal was quieted; and, as Linwood afterward affirmed, spoke as plainly to him with her eye as ever human voice spoke. At any rate, she stood perfectly still while Eliot assisted the young lady to dismount. The people now gathered round; and at the first burst of inquiry and congratulation, Herbert disappeared. “Thank God, you are not hurt, Belle!” exclaimed her father, whose voice, though choked with emotion, was heard above all others. “What in Heaven’s name possessed Jennet?—she never kicked before; and how in the world did you quiet her, sir?” turning to Eliot. “It was most courageously done!”
“Miraculously!” said Miss Linwood; her face, as she turned it to Eliot, beaming with gratitude. There are voices that, at their first sound, seem to strike a new chord that ever after vibrates; and this first word that Eliot heard pronounced by Isabella Linwood, often afterward rung in his ears like a remembered strain of sweet music. There were persons present, however, not occupied with such high emotions; and while Eliot was putting in a disclaimer, and saying, if there were any merit attending arresting the horse, it was his servant’s, diligent search was making into the cause of the animal’s transgression, which soon appeared in the form of a thorn, that, being entangled in the saddle-cloth, had pierced her side.
The first flow of Mr. Linwood’s gratitude seemed to have been suddenly checked. “Papa has seen the blue coat,” thought Isabella; “and the gushings of his heart are turned to icicles!” And infusing into her own manner the warmth lacking in his, she asked what name she should associate with her preservation.
“My name is Lee.”
“A very short one. May we prefix Harry or Charles?” alluding to two distinguished commanders in the American army.
137“Neither. Mine is a name unknown to fame. Eliot.”
“Eliot Lee!—Herbert’s friend!—Bessie’s brother! Papa, you do not understa
nd. Mr. Lee is the brother of your little pet, Bessie Lee, and,” she added, “Herbert’s best friend.”
Her father coloured; and civilly hoped Miss Bessie Lee was well.
“Well! that is nothing,” exclaimed Miss Linwood. “We hope all the world is well; but I must know where Bessie is—what she is doing—how she is looking, and a thousand million et ceteras. Papa, Mr. Lee must come home with us.”
“Certainly, Isabella, if Mr. Lee chooses.”
Thus bidden, Mr. Lee could only choose to refuse, which he did; alleging that he had no time at his own disposal.
Isabella looked pained, and Mr. Linwood felt uncomfortable; and making an effort at an amende honorable, he said, “Pray send your servant to me, sir; I shall be happy to express my obligations to him.”
“Heaven smiles on Herbert!” thought Eliot; and he replied eagerly, “I will most certainly send him, sir, this evening, at eight o’clock.” He then bowed to Mr. Linwood, took Isabella’s hand, which she again graciously extended to him, and thanking her for her last kind words—“Best—best love to Bessie; be sure you don’t forget it,” he mounted his horse and was off.
“Send him!” said Mr. Linwood, reiterating Eliot’s last words. “I’ll warrant him!—trust a Yankee for not letting slip a shilling.”
“He is quite right, papa. If he cannot obtain the courtesy due to the gentleman in return for the service he has rendered, he is right to secure the reward of the menial. You were savage, sir—absolutely savage. Mr. Lee will think we are barbarians—heathens—any thing but Christians.”
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