The grave-yard was an enclosure on the grounds of Mr. Wharton, which had been fenced with stone, and set apart for the purpose by that gentleman some years before. It was not, however, intended as a burial place for any of his own family. Until the fire, which raged as the British troops took possession of New-York, had laid Trinity in ashes, a goodly gilded tablet on its walls proclaimed the virtues of his deceased parents, and beneath a flag of marble in one of the aisles of the church, their bones were left to moulder in aristocratical repose. Captain Lawton made a movement, as if he was disposed to follow the procession, when it left the highway, to enter the field which contained the graves of the humble dead, but he was recalled to recollection by a hint from his companion, that he was taking the wrong road.
“Of all the various methods which have been adopted by man for the disposal of his earthly remains, which do you prefer, Captain Lawton?” said the surgeon, as they separated from the little procession: “in some countries the body is exposed to be devoured by wild beasts; in others, it is suspended in the air to exhale its substance in the manner of decomposition; in other regions it is consumed on the funeral pile, and, again, it is inhumed in the bowels of the earth; every people have their own particular fashion, and to which do you give the preference?”
“All are agreeable,” said the trooper, following the group they had left with his eyes; “though the speediest interments give the cleanest fields. Of which are you an admirer?”
“The last as practised by ourselves; for the other three are destructive of all the opportunities for dissection; whereas, in the last, the coffin can lie in peaceful decency, while the remains are made to subserve the useful purposes of science. Ah! Captain Lawton, I enjoy comparatively but few opportunities of such a nature, to what I expected on entering the army.”
“To what may these pleasures numerically amount in a year?” said the captain withdrawing his gaze from the grave-yard.
“Within a dozen, upon my honour; my best picking is when the corps is detached; for when we are with the main army, there are so many boys to be satisfied, that I seldom get a good subject. Those youngsters are as wasteful as prodigals, and as greedy as vultures.”
“A dozen!” echoed the trooper in surprise, “why I furnish you that number with my own hands.”
“Ah! Jack,” returned the doctor, approaching the subject with great tenderness of manner, “it is seldom I can do any thing with your patients, you disfigure them wofully; believe me, John, when I tell you as a friend—that your system is all wrong; you unnecessarily destroy life, and then you injure the body so that it is unfit for the only use that can be made of a dead man.”
The trooper maintained a silence which he thought would be the most probable means of preserving peace between them; and the surgeon, turning his head from taking a last look at the burial, as they rode round the foot of the hill that shut the valley from their sight, continued with a suppressed sigh—
“One might get a natural death from that grave-yard to night, if there was but time and opportunity! the patient must be the father of the lady we saw this morning.”
“The petticoat doctor!—she with the Aurora Borealis complexion,” said the trooper, with a smile, that began to cause uneasiness to his companion; “but the lady was not the gentleman’s daughter, only his medico-petticoat attendant; and the Harvey, whose name was made to rhyme with every word in her song, is the renowned pedlar-spy.”
“What! he who unhorsed you.”
“No man ever unhorsed me, Doctor Sitgreaves,” said the dragoon, gravely; “I fell by a mischance of Roanoke; rider and beast kissed the earth together.”
“A warm embrace from the love spots it left on your cuticle; ’tis a thousand pities that you cannot find where the tattling rascal lies hid.”
“He followed his father’s body.”
“And you let him pass,” cried the surgeon checking his horse; “let us return immediately and take him, to-morrow you shall have him hanged, Jack, and damn him, I’ll dissect him.”
“Softly, softly, my dear Archibald; would you arrest a man while paying the last offices to a dead father; leave him to me, and I pledge myself he shall have justice.”
The doctor muttered his dissatisfaction at any postponement of vengeance, but he was compelled to acquiesce from a regard to his reputation for propriety, and they continued their ride to the quarters of the corps, engaged in various discussions concerning the welfare of the human body.
Birch supported the grave and collected manner, that was thought becoming in a male mourner on such occasions, and to Katy was left the part of exhibiting the tenderness of the softer sex. There are some people, whose feelings are of such a nature, that they cannot weep unless it be in proper company, and the spinster was a good deal addicted to this congregational virtue. After casting her eyes round the small assemblage, the housekeeper found the countenances of the few females, who were present, fixed on her in solemn expectation, and the effect was instantaneous; the maiden really wept, and she gained no inconsiderable sympathy, and some reputation for a tender heart from the spectators. The muscles of the pedlar’s face were seen to move, and as the first clod of earth fell on the tenement of his father, sending up that dull, hollow, sound, that speaks so eloquently the mortality of man, his whole frame was for an instant convulsed. He bent his body down, as if in pain, his fingers worked while the hands hung lifeless by his side, and there was an expression in his countenance that seemed to announce a writhing of the soul; but it was not unresisted, and it was transient. He stood erect, drew a long breath, and looked around him with an elevated face, that even seemed to smile with a consciousness of having obtained the mastery. The grave was soon filled; a rough stone, placed at either extremity, marked its position, and the turf, whose faded vegetation was adapted to the fortunes of the deceased, covered the little hillock with the last office of seemliness. This office ended, the neighbours, who had officiously pressed forward to offer their services in performing this solemn duty, paused, and lifting their hats, stood looking toward the mourner, who now felt himself to be really alone in the world. Uncovering his head also, the pedlar hesitated a moment, to gather energy, and spoke.
“My friends and neighbours,” he said, “I thank you for assisting me to bury my dead out of my sight.”
A solemn pause succeeded the customary address, and the group dispersed in silence, some few walking with the mourners back to their own habitation, but respectfully leaving them at its entrance. The pedlar and Katy were followed into the building by one man, however, who was well known to the surrounding country by the significant term of “a speculator.” Katy saw him enter with a heart that palpitated with dreadful forebodings, but Harvey civilly handed him a chair, and evidently was prepared for the visit.
The pedlar went to the door, and taking a cautious glance about the valley, quickly returned and commenced the following dialogue—
“The sun has just left the top of the eastern hill; my time presses me; here is the deed for the house and lot, every thing is done according to law.”
The other took the paper, and conned its contents with a deliberation that proceeded partly from his caution, and partly from the unlucky circumstance of his education having been much neglected when a youth. The time occupied in this tedious examination was employed by Harvey in gathering together certain articles, which he intended to include in the stores that were to leave the habitation with himself. Katy had already inquired of the pedlar, whether the deceased had left a will, and she saw the Bible placed in the bottom of a new pack, which she had made for his accommodation, with a most stoical indifference; but as the six silver spoons were laid carefully by its side, a sudden twinge of her conscience objected to such a palpable waste of property, and she broke silence.
“When you marry, Harvey, you may miss those spoons.”
“I never shall marry.”
�
��Well if you don’t, there’s no occasion to make rash promises, even to yourself. One never knows what one may do, in such a case. I should like to know, of what use so many spoons can be to a single man: for my part, I think it is a duty for every man who is well provided, to have a wife and family to maintain.”
At the time when Katy expressed this sentiment, the fortune of women in her class of life consisted of a cow, a bed, the labours of their own hands in the shape of divers pillow cases, blankets, and sheets, with, where fortune was unusually kind, a half dozen silver spoons. The spinster herself had obtained all the other necessaries by her own industry and prudence, and it can easily be imagined that she saw the articles, she had long counted her own, vanish in the enormous pack with a dissatisfaction, that was in no degree diminished by the declaration that had preceded the act. Harvey, however, disregarded her opinions and feelings, and continued his employment of filling the pack, which soon grew to something like the ordinary size of the pedlar’s burthen.
“I’m rather timersome about this conveyance,” said the purchaser, having at length waded through the covenants of the deed.
“Why so?”
“I’m afeard it won’t stand good in law; I know that two of the neighbours leave home to-morrow morning, to have the place entered for confistication, and if I should give forty pounds and lose it all, ’twould be a dead pull back to me.”
“They can only take my right,” said the pedlar; “pay me two hundred dollars, and the house is yours; you are a well known whig, and you at least they won’t trouble;” as Harvey spoke, there was a strange bitterness of manner, mingled with the shrewd care he expressed concerning the sale of his property.
“Say one hundred, and it is a bargain,” returned the man, with a grin that he meant for a good-natured smile.
“A bargain!” echoed the pedlar in surprise, “I thought the bargain already made.”
“Nothing is a bargain,” said the purchaser with a chuckle, “until papers are delivered, and the money paid in hand.”
“You have the paper.”
“Aye, and will keep it, if you will excuse the money; come, say one hundred and fifty, and I won’t be hard; here—here is just the money.”
The pedlar looked from the window, and saw with dismay that the evening was fast advancing, and knew well that he endangered his life by remaining in the dwelling after dark; yet he could not tolerate the idea of being defrauded in this manner, in a bargain that had already been fairly made; he hesitated.
“Well,” said the purchaser, rising, “mayhap you can find another man to trade with, between this and morning; but if you don’t, your title won’t be worth much afterward.”
“Take it, Harvey,” said Katy, who felt it impossible to resist a tender like the one before her, for the purchase money was in English guineas. Her voice roused the pedlar, and a new idea seemed to strike him.
“I agree to the price,” he said, and turning to the spinster, he placed part of the money in her hand, as he continued—“had I other means to pay you, I would have lost all, rather than have suffered myself to be defrauded of part.”
“You may lose all yet,” muttered the stranger with a sneer, as he rose and left the building.
“Yes,” said Katy, following him with her eyes; “he knows your failing, Harvey; he thinks with me, now the old gentleman is gone, you will want a careful body to take care of your concerns.”
The pedlar was busied in making arrangements for his departure, and he took no notice of this insinuation, while the spinster returned again to the attack. She had lived so many years in expectation of a termination to her hopes so different from that which now seemed likely to occur, that the idea of separation began to give her more uneasiness, than she had thought herself capable of feeling, about a man so destitute and friendless.
“Have you another house to go to?” inquired Katy.
“Providence will provide me with a home.”
“Yes,” said the housekeeper; “but maybe ’twill not be to your liking.”
“The poor must not be difficult.”
“I’m sure I’m any thing but a difficult body,” cried the spinster very hastily; “but I love to see things becoming, and in their places; yet I wouldn’t be hard to persuade to leave this place myself. I can’t say I altogether like the ways of the people hereabouts.”
“The valley is lovely,” said the pedlar with fervor, “and the people like all the race of man. But to me it matters nothing; all places are now alike, and all faces equally strange,” as he spoke, he dropt the article he was packing from his hand, and seated himself on a chest, with a look of vacant misery.
“Not so, not so,” said Katy, shoving her chair nearer to the place where the pedlar sat; “not so, Harvey, you must know me at least; my face cannot be strange to you certainly.”
Birch turned his eyes slowly on her countenance, which exhibited more of feeling, and less of self, than he had ever seen there before; he took her hand kindly, and his own features lost some of their painful expression as he said—
“Yes, good woman, you, at least, are not a stranger to me; you may do me partial justice; when others revile me, possibly your feelings may lead you to say something in my defence.”
“That I will—that I would!” said Katy eagerly, “I will defend you, Harvey, to the last drop—let me hear them that dare revile you! you say true, Harvey, I am partial and just to you—what if you do like the king, I have often heard it said he was at the bottom a good man; but there’s no religion in the old country; for every body allows the ministers are desperate bad!”
The pedlar paced the floor in evident distress of mind; his eye had a look of wildness, that Katy had never witnessed before, and his step was measured with a dignity that appalled the housekeeper.
“While my father lived,” murmured Harvey, unable to smother his feelings, “there was one who read my heart, and oh! what a consolation to return from my secret marches of danger, and the insults and wrongs that I suffered, to receive his blessing and his praise; but he is gone,” he continued, stopping and gazing wildly towards the corner that used to hold the figure of his parent, “and who is there to do me justice?”
“Why Harvey! Harvey!”
“Yes, there is one who will—who must know me before I die. Oh! it is dreadful to die and leave such a name behind me.”
“Don’t talk of dying, Harvey,” said the spinster, glancing her eye around the room, and pushing the wood in the fire to obtain a light from the blaze.
The ebullition of feeling in the pedlar was over. It had been excited by the events of the past day, and a vivid perception of his sufferings. It was not long, however, that passion maintained an ascendancy over the reason of this singular man, and perceiving that the night had already thrown an obscurity around objects without doors, he hastily threw his pack over his shoulders, and taking Katy kindly by the hand, in leavetaking—
“It is painful to part with even you, good woman,” he said: “but the hour has come, and I must go: what is left in the house is yours; to me it could be of no use, and it may serve to make you more comfortable—farewell—we shall meet hereafter.”
“In the regions of darkness,” cried a voice that caused the pedlar to sink on the chest from which he had risen in despair.
“What! another pack, Mr. Birch, and so well stuffed so soon!”
“Have you not yet done evil enough?” cried the pedlar, regaining his firmness, and springing on his feet with energy; “is it not enough to harrass the last moments of a dying man—to impoverish me—what more would you have?”
“Your blood,” said the Skinner with cool malignity.
“And for money,” cried Harvey bitterly; “like the ancient Judas, you would grow rich with the price of blood.”
“Ay! and a fair price it is my gentleman: fifty guineas—nearly the weight of that scare-
crow carcass of your’s in gold.”
“Here,” said Katy promptly, “here are fifteen guineas, and these drawers, and this bed are all mine—if you will give Harvey but one hour’s start from the door, they shall be your’s.”
“One hour,” said the Skinner, showing his teeth, and looking with a longing eye at the money.
“But a single hour—here, take the money.”
“Hold!” cried Harvey; “put no faith in the miscreant.”
“She may do what she pleases with her faith,” said the Skinner with malignant pleasure; “but I have the money in good keeping; as for you, Mr. Birch, we will bear your insolence, for the fifty guineas that are to pay for your gallows.”
The Spy & Lionel Lincoln Page 23