The box from which Mr. Wharton had just taken a supply for his pipe, was lying open, within a few inches of the elbow of Harper, who took a small quantity from its contents, and applied it to his tongue, in a manner perfectly natural, but one that filled his companion with alarm. Without, however, observing that the quality was of the most approved kind, the traveller relieved his host by relapsing again into his meditations. Mr. Wharton now felt unwilling to lose the advantage he had gained, and, making an effort of more than usual vigor, he continued—
“I wish, from the bottom of my heart, this unnatural struggle was over, that we might again meet our friends and relatives in peace and love.”
“It is much to be desired,” said Harper, emphatically, again raising his eyes to the countenance of his host.
“I hear of no movements of consequence, since the arrival of our new allies,” said Mr. Wharton, shaking the ashes from his pipe, and turning his back to the other, under the pretence of receiving a coal from his youngest daughter.
“None have yet reached the public, I believe.”
“Is it thought any important steps are about to be taken?” continued Mr. Wharton, still occupied with his daughter, yet unconsciously suspending his employment, in expectation of a reply.
“Is it intimated any are in agitation?”
“Oh! nothing in particular, but it is natural to expect some new enterprise from so powerful a force as that under Rochambeau.”
Harper made an assenting inclination with his head, but no other reply to this remark; while Mr. Wharton, after lighting his pipe, resumed the subject.
“They appear more active in the South—Gates and Cornwallis seem willing to bring the war to an issue, there.”
The brow of Harper contracted; and a deeper shade of melancholy crossed his features—his eye kindled with a transient beam of fire, that spoke a latent source of deep feeling. The admiring gaze of the younger of the sisters had barely time to read its expression, before it passed away, leaving in its room the acquired composure which marked the countenance of the stranger, and that impressive dignity which so conspicuously denotes the empire of reason.
The elder sister made one or two movements in her chair, before she ventured to say, in a tone, which partook in no small measure, of triumph—
“General Gates has been less fortunate with the Earl, than with General Burgoyne.”
“But General Gates is an Englishman, Sarah,” cried the younger lady, with quickness; then, coloring to the eyes at her own boldness, she employed herself in tumbling over the contents of her work-basket, silently hoping the remark would be unnoticed.
The traveller had turned his face from one sister to the other, as they had spoken in succession, and an almost imperceptible movement of the muscles of his mouth betrayed a new emotion, as he playfully inquired of the younger,—
“May I venture to ask, what inference you would draw from that fact?”
Frances blushed yet deeper at this direct appeal to her opinions upon a subject on which she had incautiously spoken in the presence of a stranger; but, finding an answer necessary, after some little hesitation, and with a good deal of stammering in her manner, she replied—
“Only—only—sir—my sister and myself sometimes differ in our opinions of the prowess of the British.” A smile of much meaning played on a face of infantile innocency, as she concluded.
“On what particular points of their prowess do you differ?” continued Harper, meeting her look of animation with a smile of almost paternal softness.
“Sarah thinks the British are never beaten; while I do not put so much faith in their invincibility.”—
The traveller listened to her with that pleased indulgence, with which virtuous age loves to contemplate the ardour of youthful innocence; but making no reply, he turned to the fire, and continued for some time gazing on its embers, in silence.
Mr. Wharton had in vain endeavoured to pierce the disguise of his guest’s political feelings; but, while there was nothing forbidding in his countenance, there was nothing communicative. On the contrary, it was strikingly reserved; and the master of the house arose, in profound ignorance of what, in those days, was the most material point in the character of his guest—to lead the way into another room and to the supper table. Mr. Harper offered his hand to Sarah Wharton, and they entered the room together; while Frances followed, greatly at a loss to know whether she had not wounded the feelings of her father’s inmate.
The storm began to rage with great violence without; and the dashing rain on the sides of the building, awakened that silent sense of enjoyment, which is excited by such sounds in a room of quiet comfort and warmth, when a loud summons at the outer door again called the faithful black to the portal. In a minute the servant returned, and informed his master that another traveller, overtaken by the storm, desired to be admitted to the house, for a shelter through the night.
At the first sounds of the impatient summons of this new applicant, Mr. Wharton had risen from his seat in evident uneasiness, and, with eyes glancing, with quickness, from his guest to the door of the room, he seemed to be expecting something to proceed from this second interruption, connected with the stranger who had occasioned the first. He scarcely had time to bid the black, with a faint voice, to show this second comer in, before the door was thrown hastily open, and the stranger himself entered the apartment. He paused a moment, as the person of Harper met his view, and then, in a more formal manner, repeated the request he had before made through the servant. Mr. Wharton and his family disliked the appearance of this new visitor excessively; but the inclemency of the weather, and the uncertainty of the consequences if he were refused the desired lodgings, compelled the old gentleman to give a reluctant acquiescence.
Some of the dishes were replaced by the orders of Miss Peyton, and the weather-beaten intruder was invited to partake of the remains of the repast, from which the party had just risen. Throwing aside a rough great coat, he very composedly took the offered chair, and unceremoniously proceeded to allay the cravings of an appetite, which appeared by no means delicate. But at every mouthful he would turn an unquiet eye on Harper, who studied his appearance with a closeness of investigation, that was very embarrassing to its subject. At length, pouring out a glass of wine, the new comer nodded significantly to his examiner, previously to swallowing the liquor, and said, with something of bitterness in his manner—
“I drink to our better acquaintance, sir,—I believe, this is the first time we have met, though your attention would seem to say otherwise.”
The quality of the wine seemed greatly to his fancy, for, on replacing the glass upon the table, he gave his lips a smack, that resounded through the room; and, taking up the bottle, he held it between himself and the light, for a moment, in silent contemplation of its clear and brilliant color.
“I think, we have never met before, sir,” replied Harper, with a slight smile on his features, as he observed the movements of the other; but appearing satisfied with his scrutiny, he turned to Sarah Wharton, who sat next him, and carelessly remarked—
“You doubtless find your present abode solitary, after being accustomed to the gaieties of the city.”
“Oh! excessively so,” said Sarah hastily. “I do wish with my father, that this cruel war was at an end, that we might return to our friends once more.”
“And you, Miss Frances, do you long as ardently for peace as your sister?”
“On many accounts, I certainly do,” returned the other, venturing to steal a timid glance at her interrogator; and, meeting the same benevolent expression of feeling as before, she continued, as her own face lighted into one of its animated and bright smiles of intelligence, “but, not at the expence of the rights of my countrymen.”
“Rights!” repeated her sister, impatiently; “whose rights can be stronger than those of a sovereign; and what duty is clearer, than to
obey those who have a natural right to command!”—
“None, certainly,” said Frances, laughing with great pleasantry; and taking the hand of her sister affectionately within both of her own, she added, with a smile directed towards Harper—
“I gave you to understand, that my sister and myself differed in our political opinions—but we have an impartial umpire in my father, who loves his own countrymen, and he loves the British,—so he takes sides with neither.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wharton, in a little alarm, eyeing first one guest, and then the other; “I have near friends in both armies; and I dread a victory by either, as a source of certain private misfortune.”
“I take it, you have little reason to apprehend much from the Yankees, in that way;” interrupted the guest at the table, coolly helping himself to another glass, from the bottle he had admired.
“His Majesty may have more experienced troops than the continentals,” answered the host, fearfully, “but the Americans have met with distinguished success.”
Harper disregarded the observations of both; and, rising, he desired to be shown to his place of rest. A small boy was directed to guide him to his room; and, wishing a courteous good-night to the whole party, the traveller withdrew. The knife and fork fell from the hands of the unwelcome intruder, as the door closed on the retiring figure of Harper;—he arose slowly from his seat;—listening attentively, he approached the door of the room—opened it—seemed to attend to the retreating footsteps of the other—and, amidst the panic and astonishment of his companions, he closed it again. In an instant, the red wig which concealed his black locks—the large patch, which hid half his face from observation—the stoop, that had made him appear fifty years of age, disappeared.
“My father!—my dear father”—cried the handsome young man; “and you, my dearest sisters and aunt!—have I at last met you, again.”
“Heaven bless you—my Henry—my son!” exclaimed the astonished, but delighted, parent; while his sisters sunk on his shoulders, dissolved in tears.
The faithful old black, who had been reared from infancy in the house of his master, and who, as if in mockery of his degraded state, had been complimented with the name of Caesar, was the only other witness of this unexpected discovery of the son of Mr. Wharton. After receiving the extended hand of his young master, and imprinting on it a fervent kiss, Caesar withdrew. The boy did not re-enter the room; and the black himself, after some time, returned, just as the young British captain was exclaiming—
“But, who is this Mr. Harper?—is he likely to betray me?”
“No—no—no—Massa Harry,” cried the negro, shaking his gray head confidently, “I been to see—Massa Harper on he knee—pray to God—no gemman who pray to God, tell of good son, come to see old fader—Skinner do that—no christian!”
This poor opinion of the Skinners was not confined to Mr.—Caesar Thompson, as he called himself—but Caesar Wharton, as he was styled, by the little world to which he was known. The convenience, and perhaps the necessities, of the leaders of the American arms, in the neighbourhood of New-York, had induced them to employ certain subordinate agents, of extremely irregular habits, in executing their lesser plans of annoying the enemy. It was not a moment for fastidious inquiries into abuses of any description, and oppression and injustice were the natural consequences of the possession of a military power that was uncurbed by the restraints of civil authority. In time, a distinct order in the community was formed, whose sole occupation appears to have been that of relieving their fellow citizens from any little excess of temporal prosperity, they might be thought to enjoy, under the pretence of patriotism, and the love of liberty.
Occasionally, the aid of military authority was not wanting, in enforcing these arbitrary distributions of worldly goods; and a petty holder of a commission, in the state militia, was to be seen giving the sanction, of something like legality, to acts of the most unlicensed robbery—and, not unfrequently, of bloodshed.
On the part of the British, the stimulus of loyalty was by no means suffered to sleep, where so fruitful a field offered, on which it might be expended. But their freebooters were enrolled, and their efforts more systematized. Long experience had taught their leaders the efficacy of concentrated force; and, unless tradition does great injustice to their exploits, the result did no little credit to their foresight. The corps—we presume, from their known affection to that useful animal—had received the quaint appellation of “Cow-Boys.”
Caesar was, however, far too loyal to associate men who held the commission of George III., with the irregular warriors, whose excesses he had so often witnessed, and from whose rapacity, neither his poverty, nor his bondage, had suffered even him to escape uninjured. The Cow-Boys, therefore, did not receive their proper portion of the black’s censure, when he said, no Christian—nothing but a “Skinner,” could betray a pious child, while honoring his father with a visit so full of peril.
* As each State of the American Union has its own Counties, it often happens that there are several which bear the same name. The scene of this tale, is in New-York, whose County of West-Chester is the nearest adjoining to the City.
† The city of New-York is situate on an island called Manhattan, but it is, at one point, separated from the county of West-Chester by a creek of only a few feet in width. The bridge, at this spot, is called King’s bridge. It was the scene of many skirmishes during the war, and is alluded to, in this tale. Every Manhattanese knows the difference between “Manhattan Island” and “the island of Manhattan.” The first is applied to a small district in the vicinity of Corlaer’s Hook, while the last embraces the whole island; or the city and county of New-York, as it is termed in the laws.
‡ ‘Improvements’ is used by the Americans to express every degree of change in converting land from its state of wilderness to that of cultivation. In this meaning of the word it is an ‘improvement’ to fell the trees, and it is valued precisely by the supposed amount of the cost.
Chapter II
“And many a halcyon day he liv’d to see
Unbroken, but by one misfortune dire,
When fate had reft his mutual heart—but she
Was gone—and Gertrude climb’d a widow’d father’s knee.”
Gertrude of Wyoming.
* * *
THE FATHER of Mr. Wharton was a native of England; and of a family, whose parliamentary interest, had enabled them to provide for a younger son, in the colony of New-York. The young man, like hundreds of others in his situation, had settled permanently in the country. He married, and the sole issue of his connexion had been sent, early in life, to receive the benefits of the English schools. After taking his degrees at one of the universities of the mother country, the youth had been suffered to acquire a knowledge of life, with the advantages of European society. But the death of his father recalled him, after passing two years in this manner, to the possession of an honorable name, and a very ample estate.
It was much the fashion of that day, to place the youth, of certain families, in the army or navy of England, as the regular stepping-stones to preferment. Most of the higher offices in the colonies, were filled by men who had made arms their profession; and it was even no uncommon sight to see a veteran warrior laying aside the sword, to assume the ermine on the benches of the highest judicial authority.
In conformity with this system, the senior Mr. Wharton had intended his son for a soldier, but a natural imbecility of character in his child, interfered with his wishes.
A twelvemonth had been spent by the young man, in weighing the comparative advantages of the different classes of troops, when the death of his father occurred. The ease of his situation, and the attentions lavished upon a youth in the actual enjoyment of one of the largest estates in the colonies, interfered greatly with his ambitious projects. Love decided the matter—and Mr. Wharton, in becoming a husband, ceased to think o
f becoming a soldier. For many years he continued happy in his family, and sufficiently respected, by his countrymen, as a man of integrity and consequence, when all his enjoyments vanished, as it were, at a blow. His only son, the youth introduced in the preceding chapter, had entered the army, and had arrived in his native country but a short time before the commencement of hostilities, with the reinforcements the ministry had thought it prudent to throw into the disaffected parts of North America. His daughters were just growing into life, and their education required all the advantages the city could afford. His wife had been, for some years, in declining health, and had barely time to fold her son to her bosom, and rejoice in the re-union of her family, before the revolution burst forth, in a continued blaze, from Georgia to Massachusetts. The shock was too much for the feeble condition of the mother, who saw her child called to the field, to combat against the members of her own family in the South; and she sunk under the blow.
There was no part of the continent where the manners of England, and its aristocratical notions of blood and alliances, prevailed with more force, than in a certain circle immediately around the metropolis of New-York. The customs of the early Dutch inhabitants had, indeed, blended, in some measure, with the English manners; but still the latter prevailed. This attachment to Great Britain was increased by the frequent inter-marriages of the officers of the mother country, with the wealthier and more powerful families of the vicinity, until, at the commencement of hostilities, their united influence had very nearly thrown the colony into the scale, on the side of the crown. A few, however, of the leading families espoused the cause of the people; and a sufficient stand was made against the efforts of the ministerial party, to organize, and, aided by the army of the confederation, to maintain an independent and republican form of government.
The Spy & Lionel Lincoln Page 5