The Linwoods

by Catharine Maria Sedgwick

  “Oh, no—no; do not commend me for that—they fell off.”

  “Be it so: they could not fetter you, that is enough.”

  “Then,” said Isabella, somewhat mischievously, “I think you like me for, what most men like not at all—my love of freedom and independence of control.”

  “Yes, I do; for I think they are essential to the highest and most progressive nature; but I should not love it if it were not blended with all the tenderness and softness of your sex. The fire that mounts to Heaven from the altar, diffuses its gentle warmth at the fireside. Think you, that while you have been tending my sister, I have been unmindful of your kindly domestic qualities, or blind to the thousand womanly inventions by which I see you ministering to the happiness of these unfortunate children? Have you thought me insensible to your intervention for my poor boy, Kisel, though God, in much mercy to him, willed it should be bootless? I do homage to your genius, talent, and accomplishment, but I love your gracious, domestic, home-felt virtues. I am exhausting your patience.” 399Isabella had covered her face; overpowered with the accumulated proof that Eliot had watched her with a fond lover’s eye. After a slight hesitation, he proceeded to obey a most natural, if it be a weak longing. “Allow me, if you can, one solace, one blessed thought to cheer a long life of loneliness and devotion. I am bold in asking it; but, tell me, had I known you earlier, had no predilection forestalled me, had no rival intervened, do you think it possible that you should have returned my love?”

  Some one says that all women are reared hypocrites—trained to veil their natures; Isabella Linwood, at least, was not. She replied, impulsively and frankly, “Most certainly I should.”

  Eliot again fell at her feet. He ventured to take her hand, to press it to his lips, to wet it with his tears. “I am satisfied,” he said; “now I can go; and the thought that I might, under a happier star, have been loved by Isabella Linwood, shall elevate, guide, and sooth me, in all the chances and changes of life.”

  While Eliot was uttering these last words, and while Isabella was absorbed in the emotions they excited, the door was softly opened, and Lizzy Archer, flitting across the room, said in a low voice, “Oh, Captain Lee! what shall we do?—there are horrid soldiers watching at both our doors for you—mamma is out, and I could not sleep—I never sleep when you are here, for fear something will happen—I heard their voices at the side door; and when I came through the hall, I heard others through the street door—what shall we do?—Cousin Belle, pray think—you can always think in a minute.”

  But “Cousin Belle’s” presence of mind had suddenly forsaken her; and as Eliot’s eye glanced towards her, he saw she was pale and trembling. A hope shot into his mind, a thought of the possibility that if he were not now severed from her, that which she had generously admitted might have been, 400might still be. To exclude this newborn hope seemed to him like the extinction of life. He rapidly revolved the circumstances in which he was placed. He had done, in the affair intrusted to him, all, and even more than his commander expected; it had failed of consummation through no fault of his; he was in the American uniform, and thus captured, he might claim the rights of a prisoner of war; the temporary loss of his presence in camp would be unimportant to the cause; and remaining for a time within reach of Isabella Linwood might result in good, infinite good, and happiness to himself. He wavered; but the fixed habit of rectitude prevailed, the duty of the soldier over the almost irresistible inclinations of the man: he shut out the temptation, and only considered the means of escape. “Dear Lizzy,” he said, “if I could find my way to your skylight—I have observed the descent would not be dangerous from there to the back building, and so down on the roofs of the other offices.”

  “But,” said Lizzy, for the little creature seemed to have considered the whole ground, “if there should be soldiers too at the back gate?”

  “I will avoid them, Lizzy, by going into the next yard to yours, then over two or three walls, till I find it safe to emerge into the street.”

  “I can lead you to the skylight. I am very glad I am blind, so I shall not need any light; for that would show you to the soldiers, who are standing by the side windows of the hall-door. Oh, dear, I hope they won’t hear my heart beat; but it does beat so!”

  There were other hearts there that beat almost audibly besides poor Lizzy’s; but there was no time to indulge emotions. Eliot kissed his unconscious sister; and then grasping the hand Isabella extended to him, he would have said, “Farewell for ever!” but his voice was choked, and the last ominous word was unpronounced. His little guide led him 401noiselessly up the stairs, through the entries, and to the skylight; and then fondly embracing him and promising to give his farewells to “mother and Ned,” she parted from him, and stood fixed and breathless, listening till she believed he had eluded those who were lying in wait for him, when she returned to give full vent to her feelings on Isabella’s bosom, and to find more sympathy there than she wotted of.

  We shall not follow our hero through his “imminent dangers and hair-breadth ’scapes.” Suffice it to say, he did escape; and having passed the Hudson in the same little boat that brought “Harmann Van Zandt” to the city, he eluded the British station at Powles Hook, passed their redoubts, and at dawn of day received at the camp at Morris-town the warm thanks of Washington, who estimated conduct by its intrinsic merit, and not, according to the common and false standard, by its results.

  403CHAPTER XXXVII.

  “Good sir, good sir, you are deceived;

  it is no man at all!”

  At any other juncture, Mr. Linwood would have been restless and unappeasable under the privation of Isabella’s society; but now, in his interest and sympathy in Herbert’s affairs, and in his fondness for Lady Anne, he found full employment for his thoughts and feelings. Lady Anne persisted in considering herself Herbert’s betrothed; and in spite of her aunt, who, as her niece affirmed, had become insupportably cross and teasing, she persevered in spending all her evenings with the Linwoods. The charm that love imparts to those who are connected with the object of a concentrated affection, was attached to Herbert’s father and mother. Lady Anne felt the most tender anxieties for her lover; but, sustained by the buoyancy of youth, and a most cheerful and sanguine disposition, she was uniformly bright and animated. Her sparkling eye and dimpled cheek were happiness to Mr. Linwood; the old love cheerfulness as the dim eye delights in brilliant colours.

  Mrs. Archer, who was always, in Mr. Linwood’s estimation, the next best to Isabella, devoted her evenings to him. She saw, or fancied she saw, that Bessie’s countenance expressed a pleased consciousness of Isabella’s presence; at any rate, she knew that there was another countenance always lighted up by it. Accordingly, she repaired every evening to Mr. Linwood, and played rubber after rubber, performing 404her tiresome duty with such zest and zeal, that Mr. Linwood pronounced her a comfortable partner and respectable antagonist—“a deal more than he could say for any other woman.”

  While the surface of this little society remained as usual, there was a strong under-current at work. Herbert, after his explanation with Lady Anne, was resolved to leave no effort unmade to effect his escape from durance, and put himself in the way of those brighter hours that youth and health whispered might come. His first step was taken the morning after his parting with Lady Anne. He enclosed the permit for his visits at home, sent to him by Sir Henry Clinton, to that gentleman, with an acknowledgment of his kindness, but without assigning any reason for declining to avail himself of it farther. He was careful not to involve his honour by any pretences in relation to that obligation; it was off his hands, and he thanked Heaven he was now free to use whatever stratagem would avail him. He feigned illness. He knew Rose would be sent to inquire after him; and he also knew that, when told he was ill, she would, by force or favour, obtain access to him. Fortunately, she was admitted without hesitation; for Cunningham, conscious of the bad odour he was in on account of his ill-treatment of the American prisoners
, deemed it his best policy to inflict no gratuitous hardship on the son of Mr. Linwood. Rose, once admitted, became first counsellor and coadjutor; and with the aid of the young ladies at home, a project was contrived, of which this noble creature was to be the main executer. Herbert’s illness, of course, continued unabated; and Rose repeated her visits daily, and made her last, as she hoped, the evening succeeding Eliot’s escape. “Lock me in,” she said to the turnkey, “and leave me a quarter of an hour or so. I want to coax Mr. Herbert to take a biscuit; he’d die on your dum stuff.” Rose had, in fact, brought to Linwood, daily, more substantial rations than biscuit, and thus enabled him to gratify his appetite without endangering his 405reputation as an invalid. He was in bed when Rose entered, and out of it the moment the turnkey closed the door—“Oh, Rose, God bless you! Is all arranged?” he asked.

  “Every thing, Mr. Herbert, snug as a bug in a rug. The young ladies came with me to Mrs. Lizzy’s, and she is to be at Smith’s house with them precisely at seven. It is now half past six. Mrs. Lizzy’s boat, with the muffled oars, that’s got off many a prisoner before you, is now waiting for you.”

  “And are my sister and Lady Anne going to Smith’s house without any male attendant?”

  “Dear, yes! they are wrapped in cloaks—nobody will know them; and Mrs. Lizzy is as good a guard as horse, foot, and dragoon; there’s not a thimbleful of danger, Mr. Herbert, and they fear none, bless their hearts! To be sure, Miss Belle is no great of a soldier in common, and Lady Anne will scream like all natur’ at a mouse; but love is a great help to courage in young parsons.”

  While Rose was making these communications, to which Herbert eagerly listened, she was doffing an extra set of linsey-woolsey garments, and transferring them to her young master, who somewhat delayed their adjustment, by putting his feet first into the “cursed petticoat,” as he profanely termed it. That most respectable feminine article arranged to Rose’s satisfaction, she put over it a shortgown, and a checked handkerchief over all. “Now for the beauties,” she said, drawing from her pocket a wig and mask, and holding them up in either hand, “Miss Belle made one, and Lady Anne t’other.”

  The mask, if it might be so called, was well coloured, and bore a tolerable likeness to Rose. Linwood was enchanted. “Which,” he exclaimed, “which did Lady Anne make, Rose?”

  “The mask.”

  Linwood seized it, kissed it, and exclaimed, “Admirably, admirably done!”

  406“It was not half the trouble the wig was,” said Rose.

  “Oh, that is capital too, Rose.”

  “But you don’t carry on so about it. Land’s sake! However, I suppose you love Miss Belle as well, only it an’t a kind of love that breeds antics.”

  “True, Rose; you may be sure I shall never love anybody better than I do my sister.”

  Rose was satisfied, and proceeded to tie on the mask, and adjust the fleecy locks. “It’s a main pity,” she said, “to cover your pretty shining hair with what looks like nigger’s wool, as they call it.”

  “Not a bit—not a bit, Rose. I know some wool that covers a far better head than mine—more capable, more discerning; and God never created a nobler heart than beats under one black skin.”

  “Pooh! Mr. Herbert.” Rose’s pooh was a disclaimer; but as she put it in, she brushed a tear from her eye; then tying a mobcap and black silk bonnet over the wig, and throwing over his shoulders her short blue broadcloth cloak, and hiding his white hands in her mittens, she laughed exultingly, declaring she “should not herself know him from herself.” “Now you’re readied,” she said, “settle down as you walk—be prudent, Mr. Herbert—look before you leap. Don’t answer them dum fellows, when you go out, a word more than yes or no—I never do. Do your endeavours, and the Lord will help you. He helps them as helps themselves—hark! there comes the fellow.”

  Before the turnkey opened the door she was in bed, her head enveloped in the bedclothes; and Herbert stood, her basket on his arm, apparently waiting. No suspicion was excited, nor questions asked. They went out, and the door was relocked. Rose raised her head to listen to their receding footsteps. The footsteps ceased, and she heard Cunningham’s (the provost-marshal’s) voice, “Well, wench,” he said, 407addressing, as she knew, her counterfeit, “how goes it with your young master?”

  “Now the Lord o’ mercy help him!” she exclaimed; “he used to mimic Jupe—if he only can me.”

  She did not hear Herbert’s reply; but she heard Cunningham say, as if responding to it—“Poorlier, hey? I’ve got something here that will bring back his stomach—respects to your master—mind, wench.” Again she heard Herbert’s footsteps recede, and Cunningham enter her cell, and shut and lock the door.

  Cunningham’s name was a terror to the whigs, and to all that cared for them. The man’s excessive cruelty and meanness may be inferred from the extravagant allegations current at the time; that he was in the habit of putting the American prisoners of war to death, in order to sequester the rations allowed them. He had recently reason for apprehensions that an inquiry would be instituted into his conduct by the commander-in-chief, who certainly did not authorize unnecessary cruelties, if he neglected to take cognizance of them.

  Rose’s head was well muffled in the bedclothes, when Cunningham, coming up to the bed, said, “How goes it, Mr. Linwood; bile uppermost yet? Come, lift up your head, and speak, man—can’t you give an answer to a civil word? Come, come, I’m not Tom nor Sam, to be put off this way—next thing you’ll bolt, and I shall have it to answer for; but they sha’n’t say I did not do the good Samaritan by you. You won’t eat—you won’t hear to the doctor—the d—l is in you, man; why don’t you rise up? Here’s a dose you must take, any how—it’s what they give in all cases, calomel and jalap—come, man, if fair means won’t do, foul must.” The patient continued obstinate, and Cunningham set down the dose, which was mixed in a huge coffee-bowl, beside a basket of vials, containing sundry nauseous medicines, designed for the poor prisoners, as if bad food were not poison and torture 408enough for them. A contest began, in which Cunningham had reason to be astonished at the strength of the invalid. In the scramble, Rose’s head was disengaged from the bedclothes; the truth was revealed, and she sprang on him like a tiger on its prey. The cowardly wretch shrunk back, and drew a knife, crying out, “You d—d nigger!” Rose wrested it from him, and her spirit disdaining the assassin’s weapon, she thrust it into the wall, exclaiming—“Now we’re even!”

  He sprung towards the door—she pulled him back, threw him down, put her knee on his breast, and by the time he had made one ineffectual struggle, and once bellowed for help, she had added laudanum, castor-oil, and ipecacuanha to the calomel and jalap; and holding his nose between the thumb and finger of one hand, she presented the overflowing bowl to his lips with the other. When she had convinced him of her potentiality, by making him gulp down one swallow, she mercifully withdrew the draught, saying, “If you offer to move one inch, or make a sound, I’ll pour it down your throat to the last drop.” She then released him from her grasp, and while he was panting and shuddering, she turned her back, muttering something of stringing him up in her clothes. The “clothes,” which she quickly disengaged from their natural office, proved to be her garters. As she stretched them out, trying their strength, “My own spinning, twisting, and knitting,” said she; “they’ll bear the weight of twenty such slim pieces as you.”

  “Are you going to hang me?” gasped out Cunningham.

  “Hang you? Yes; but not harm you, if you’re quiet, mind. But I’d choke you twice over to give Mr. Herbert time: so mind and keep your breath to cool your porridge.” She then turned him over, bound his hands behind him with one garter, and made a slip-noose with the other, while he, like a reptile in the talons of a vulture, crawled and squirmed with a hopeless resistance. “There’s no use,” said Rose; “you’re but 409a baby in my hands—it’s the strong heart makes the strong arm.” She then set him upright on Herbert’s bed, put the noose around his
neck, and made the other end fast to an iron hook in the wall. This was just achieved, when a hurried footstep was heard, followed by a clattering at the door, and a call for “Master Cunningham!—Master Cunningham!” Rose placed her foot against the foot of the bedstead; Cunningham understood the menace, and suppressed the cry on his lips. The calls were reiterated. Cunningham cast one glance at Rose; her foot was fixed, her lips compressed, and her eyes glaring with a resolution stern as fate. Cunningham felt that the alternative was silence or death, and his face convulsed between the impulse to respond and the effort to keep quiet. The knocking and screaming were repeated; and then finding them ineffectual, the person went off to seek his master elsewhere. Other sounds now roused Rose’s generous spirit, and tempted her to inflict the vengeance so well deserved; but hers was not the mind to be swayed by opportunity—“convenience snug.”

  The apartment adjoining Linwood’s was spacious, and crammed with American prisoners. There was a communicating door between them, through which could be distinctly heard any sound or movement louder than usual. Loring, in his customary evening round, had entered this apartment. Loring was Cunningham’s coadjutor, and is described by Ethan Allen, who had himself notable experience in that prison, as “the most mean-spirited, cowardly, deceitful, and destructive animal in God’s creation.” Rose heard Loring command the prisoners to get to their beds, in his customary phrase (we retrench a portion of its vulgarity and profanity): “Kennel, d—n ye—kennel, ye sons of Belial!”

  At this brutal address to persons whom Rose honoured as a Catholic honours the saints, her blood boiled within her. She hastily withdrew her foot from the bedpost, and strided 410to the extremity of the narrow apartment; then turning and stretching her arm towards Cunningham, she said, with an energy that made his blood curdle, “It is not for me to ’venge them, but God will. Their children shall be lords in the land, and sound out their fathers’ names with ringing of bells and firing of cannon, when you, and Loring, and all such car’on, have died and rotted like dogs, as ye are.”