The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  The city of New-York and the adjacent territory, were alone exempted from the rule of the new commonwealth; while the royal authority extended no further than its dignity could be supported by the presence of an army. In this condition of things, the loyalists of influence adopted such measures, as best accorded with their different characters and situations. Many bore arms in support of the crown, and, by their bravery and exertions, endeavoured to secure what they deemed to be the rights of their prince, and their own estates from the effects of the law of attainder. Others left the country; seeking, in that place they emphatically called home, an asylum, as they fondly hoped, for a season only, against the confusion and dangers of war. A third, and a more wary portion, remained in the place of their nativity, with a prudent regard to their ample possessions, and, perhaps, influenced by their attachments to the scenes of their youth. Mr. Wharton was of this description. After making a provision against future contingencies, by secretly transmitting the whole of his money to the British funds, this gentleman determined to continue in the theatre of strife, and to maintain so strict a neutrality, as to insure the safety of his large estate, whichever party succeeded. He was apparently engrossed in the education of his daughters, when a relation, high in office in the new state, intimated, that a residence in what was now a British camp, differed but little, in the eyes of his countrymen, from a residence in the British capital. Mr. Wharton soon saw this was an unpardonable offence in the existing state of things, and he instantly determined to remove the difficulty, by retiring to the country. He possessed a residence in the county of West-Chester, and having been for many years in the habit of withdrawing thither, during the heats of the summer months, it was kept furnished, and ready for his accommodation. His eldest daughter was already admitted into the society of women; but Frances, the younger, required a year or two more of the usual cultivation, to appear with proper eclat—at least so thought Miss Jeanette Peyton; and as this lady, a younger sister of their deceased mother, had left her paternal home, in the colony of Virginia, with the devotedness and affection peculiar to her sex, to superintend the welfare of her orphan nieces, Mr. Wharton felt that her opinions were entitled to respect. In conformity to her advice, therefore, the feelings of the parent were made to yield to the welfare of his children.

  Mr. Wharton withdrew to the “Locusts,” with a heart rent with the pain of separating from all that was left to him of a wife he had adored, but in obedience to a constitutional prudence that pleaded loudly in behalf of his worldly goods. His handsome town residence was inhabited, in the meanwhile, by his daughters and their aunt. The regiment to which Captain Wharton belonged, formed part of the permanent garrison of the city, and the knowledge of the presence of his son was no little relief to the father, in his unceasing meditations on his absent daughters. But Captain Wharton was a young man, and a soldier; his estimate of character was not always the wisest, and his propensities led him to imagine, that a red coat never concealed a dishonorable heart.

  The house of Mr. Wharton became a fashionable lounge to the officers of the royal army, as did that of every other family, that was thought worthy of their notice. The consequences of this association were, to some few of the visited, fortunate—to more, injurious, by exciting expectations which were never to be realized, and, unhappily, to no small number ruinous. The known wealth of the father, and, possibly, the presence of a high-spirited brother, forbade any apprehension of the latter danger to the young ladies; but it was impossible that all the admiration, bestowed on the fine figure and lovely face of Sarah Wharton, should be thrown away. Her person was formed with the early maturity of the climate, and a strict cultivation of the graces had made her, decidedly, the belle of the city. No one promised to dispute with her this female sovereignty, unless it might be her younger sister. Frances, however, wanted some months to the charmed age of sixteen; and the idea of competition was far from the minds of either of the affectionate girls. Indeed, next to the conversation of Colonel Wellmere, the greatest pleasure of Sarah was in contemplating the budding beauties of the little Hebe, who played around her with all the innocency of youth, with all the enthusiasm of her ardent temper, and with no little of the archness of her native humour. Whether or not it was owing to the fact, that Frances received none of the compliments which fell to the lot of her elder sister, in the often repeated discussions on the merits of the war, between the military beaux who frequented the house; it is certain their effects on the sisters were exactly opposite. It was much the fashion, then, for the British officers to speak slightingly of their enemies; and Sarah took all the idle vapouring of her danglers to be truths. The first political opinions which reached the ears of Frances, were coupled with sneers on the conduct of her countrymen. At first she believed them; but there was occasionally a general, who was obliged to do justice to his enemy, in order to obtain justice for himself, and Frances became somewhat sceptical on the subject of the inefficiency of her countrymen. Colonel Wellmere was among those who delighted most in expending his wit on the unfortunate Americans, and, in time, Frances began to listen to his eloquence with great suspicion, and sometimes with resentment.

  It was on a hot sultry day, that the three were in the parlour of Mr. Wharton’s house, the colonel and Sarah, seated on a sofa, engaged in a combat of the eyes, aided by the usual flow of small talk, and Frances, was occupied at her tambouring frame, in an opposite corner of the room, when the gentleman suddenly exclaimed—

  “How gay the arrival of the army under General Burgoyne will make the city, Miss Wharton.”

  “Oh! how pleasant it must be,” said the thoughtless Sarah, in reply; “I am told there are many charming women with that army; as you say, it will make us all life and gaiety.”

  Frances shook back the abundance of her golden hair, and raised her eyes, dancing with the ardor of national feeling.—Then laughing, with a concealed humour, she asked—

  “Is it so certain, that General Burgoyne will be permitted to reach the city?”

  “Permitted!” echoed the colonel, “who is there to prevent it, my pretty Miss Fanny?”

  Frances was at precisely that age, when young people are most jealous of their station in society; neither quite a woman, nor yet a child. The “pretty Miss Fanny” was too familiar to be relished, and she dropped her eyes on her work again, with cheeks that glowed like crimson.

  “General Stark took the Germans into custody,” she answered compressing her lip,—“may not General Gates think the British too dangerous to go at large?”

  “Oh! they were Germans, as you say,” cried the colonel, excessively vexed at the necessity of explaining at all; “mere mercenary troops; but, when the really British regiments come in question, you will see a very different result.”

  “Of that there is no doubt,” cried Sarah, without in the least partaking of the resentment of the colonel to her sister, but hailing already in her heart, the triumph of the British.

  “Pray, Colonel Wellmere,” said Frances, recovering her good humour, and raising her joyous eyes once more to the face of the gentleman, “was the Lord Percy of Lexington, a kinsman of him who fought at Chevy Chase?”

  “Why, Miss Fanny, you are becoming a rebel,” said the colonel, endeavouring to laugh away the anger he felt; “what you are pleased to insinuate was a chase at Lexington, was nothing more than a judicious retreat—a—kind of—”

  “Running—fight,” interrupted the good-humoured girl, laying great emphasis on the first word.

  “Positively, young lady—” Colonel Wellmere was inter­rupted by a laugh from a person who had hitherto been unnoticed.

  There was a small family apartment, adjoining the room occupied by the trio, and the air had blown open the door communicating between the two. A fine young man was now seen sitting near the entrance, who, by his smiling countenance, was evidently a pleased listener to the conversation. He rose instantly, and coming through the door, with
his hat in his hand, appeared a tall graceful youth, of dark complexion, and sparkling eyes of black, from which the mirth had not yet entirely vanished, as he made his bow to the ladies.

  “Mr. Dunwoodie!” cried Sarah, in surprise; “I was ignorant of your being in the house; you will find a cooler seat in this room.”

  “I thank you,” replied the young man, “but I must go and seek your brother, who placed me there in ambuscade, as he called it, with a promise of returning an hour ago.” Without making any further explanation, the youth bowed politely to the young women—distantly, and with hauteur, to the gentleman, and withdrew. Frances followed him into the hall, and blushing richly, inquired, in a hurried voice—

  “But why—why do you leave us, Mr. Dunwoodie—Henry must soon return.”

  The gentleman caught one of her hands in his own, and the stern expression of his countenance, gave place to a look of admiration, as he replied—

  “You managed him famously, my dear little kinswoman—never—no never, forget the land of your birth—remember, if you are the grand-daughter of an Englishman, you are, also, the grand-daughter of a Peyton.”

  “Oh!” returned the laughing girl, “it would be difficult to forget that, with the constant lectures on genealogy before us, with which we are favoured by aunt Jeanette—but why do you go?”

  “I am on the wing for Virginia, and have much to do”—he pressed her hand as he spoke, and looking back, while in the act of closing the door, exclaimed, “be true to your country—be American.” The ardent girl kissed her hand to him, as he retired, and then instantly applying it with its beautiful fellow to her burning cheeks, ran into her own apartment to hide her confusion.

  Between the open sarcasm of Frances, and the ill-concealed disdain of the young man, Colonel Wellmere had felt himself placed in an awkward predicament; but ashamed to resent such trifles, in the presence of his mistress—he satisfied himself with observing superciliously, as Dunwoodie left the room—

  “Quite a liberty for a youth in his situation—a shop-boy with a bundle, I fancy.”

  The idea of picturing the graceful Peyton Dunwoodie as a shop-boy, could never enter the mind of Sarah, and she looked around her in surprise, when the colonel continued:—

  “This Mr. Dun—Dun—”

  “Dunwoodie! Oh no—he is a relation of my aunt,” cried the young lady, “and an intimate friend of my brother; they were at school together, and only separated in England, when one went into the army, and the other to a French military academy.”

  “His money appears to have been thrown away,” observed the colonel, betraying the spleen he was unsuccessfully striving to conceal.

  “We ought to hope so,” added Sarah, with a smile; “for it is said he intends joining the rebel army—he was brought in here, in a French ship, and has just been exchanged—you may soon meet him in arms.”

  “Well let him—I wish Washington plenty of such heroes”—and he turned to a more pleasant subject, by changing the discourse to themselves.

  A few weeks after this scene occurred, the army of Burgoyne laid down their arms. Mr. Wharton, beginning to think the result of the contest doubtful, resolved to conciliate his countrymen, and gratify himself, by calling his daughters into his own abode. Miss Peyton consented to be their companion; and from that time, until the period at which we commenced our narrative, they had formed one family.

  Whenever the main army made any movements, Capt. Wharton had, of course, accompanied it; and once or twice, under the protection of strong parties, acting in the neighbourhood of the “Locusts,” he had enjoyed rapid and stolen interviews with his friends. A twelvemonth had however passed without his seeing them; and the impatient Henry had adopted the disguise we have mentioned, and unfortunately arrived on the very evening that an unknown and rather suspicious guest was the inmate of a house, which seldom contained any other than its regular inhabitants.

  “But, do you think he suspects me?” asked the captain, with anxiety, after pausing to listen to Caesar’s opinion of the Skinners.

  “How should he?” cried Sarah, “when your sisters and father could not penetrate your disguise.”

  “There is something mysterious in his manner; his looks are too prying for an indifferent observer,” continued young Wharton thoughtfully, “and his face seems familiar to me—the recent fate of André has created much irritation on both sides. Sir Henry threatens retaliation for his death; and Washington is as firm as if half the world were at his command. The rebels would think me a fit subject for their plans just now, should I be so unlucky as to fall into their hands.”

  “But, my son,” cried his father, in great alarm, “you are not a spy—you are not within the rebel—that is, the American lines;—there is nothing here to spy.”

  “That might be disputed,” rejoined the young man, musing; “their picquets were as low as the White Plains when I passed through in disguise. It is true, my purposes are innocent; but how is it to appear. My visit to you would seem a cloak to other designs. Remember, sir, the treatment you received not a year since, for sending me a supply of fruit for the winter.”

  “That proceeded from the misrepresentations of my kind neighbours,” said Mr. Wharton, “who hoped, by getting my estate confiscated, to purchase good farms, at low prices.—Peyton Dunwoodie, however, soon obtained our discharge—we were detained but a month.”—

  “We!” repeated the son, in amazement, “did they take my sisters, also?—Fanny, you wrote me nothing of this.”

  “I believe,” said Frances, colouring highly, “I mentioned the kind treatment we received from your old friend, Major Dunwoodie; and that he procured my father’s release.”—

  “True;—but were you with him in the rebel camp?”—

  “Yes,” said the father, kindly; “Fanny would not suffer me to go alone. Jeanette and Sarah took charge of the ‘Locusts,’ and this little girl was my companion, in captivity.”

  “And Fanny returned from such a scene a greater rebel than ever,” cried Sarah, indignantly; “one would think the hardships her father suffered would have cured her of such whims.”

  “What say you to the charge, my pretty sister?” cried the captain, gaily;—“Did Peyton strive to make you hate your king, more than he does himself?”

  “Peyton Dunwoodie hates no one,” said Frances, quickly; then blushing at her own ardor, she added immediately; “he loves you Henry, I know; for he has told me so again and again.”

  Young Wharton tapped his sister on the cheek, with a smile, as he asked her, in an affected whisper,—“Did he tell you also that he loved my little sister Fanny?”

  “Nonsense,” said Frances; and the remnants of the supper table soon disappeared under her superintendance.

  Chapter III

  “’Twas when the fields were swept of autumn’s store,

  And growling winds the fading foliage tore,

  Behind the Lowmon hill, the short-liv’d light,

  Descending slowly, usher’d in the night;

  When from the noisy town, with mournful look,

  His lonely way a meagre pedlar took.”

  Wilson.

  * * *

  A STORM below the highlands of the Hudson, if it be introduced with an easterly wind, seldom lasts less than two days. Accordingly, as the inmates of the “Locusts” assembled, on the following morning, around their early breakfast, the driving rain was seen to strike, in nearly horizontal lines, against the windows of the building, and forbad the idea of exposing either man or beast to the tempest. Harper was the last to appear: after taking a view of the state of the weather, he apologized to Mr. Wharton for the necessity that existed for his trespassing on his goodness for a longer time. To appearances, the reply was as courteous as the excuse; yet Harper wore a resignation in his deportment that was widely different from the uneasy manner of the father. Henry Wharton had res
umed his disguise with a reluctance amounting to disgust, but in obedience to the commands of his parent. No communications passed between him and the stranger, after the first salutations of the morning had been paid by Harper to him, in common with the rest of the family. Frances had, indeed, thought there was something like a smile passing over the features of the traveller, when, on entering the room, he first confronted her brother; but it was confined to the eyes, seeming to want power to affect the muscles of the face, and was soon lost in the settled and benevolent expression which reigned in his countenance, with a sway but seldom interrupted. The eyes of the affectionate sister were turned, in anxiety, for a moment, on her brother; and, glancing again on their unknown guest, met his look as he offered her, with marked attention, one of the little civilities of the table; and the heart of the girl, which had begun to throb with violence, regained a pulsation as tempered as youth, health, and buoyant spirits could allow. While yet seated at the table, Caesar entered, and, laying a small parcel in silence by the side of his master, modestly retired behind his chair; where, placing one hand on its back, he continued in an attitude half familiar, half respectful, a listener.

  “What is this, Caesar?” inquired Mr. Wharton, turning the bundle over to examine its envelope, and eyeing it rather suspiciously.

  “The ’baccy, sir; Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little good ’baccy from York.”

  “Harvey Birch!” rejoined the master, with great deliberation, stealing a look at his guest. “I do not remember desiring him to purchase any tobacco for me; but as he has brought it, he must be paid for his trouble.”

  For an instant only, as the negro spoke, did Harper suspend his silent meal—his eye moved slowly from the servant to the master, and again all remained in its impenetrable reserve.