The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Its name, as a neutral ground, is unauthorised by law; it is an appellation that originates with the condition of the county. But wherever an army goes, it carries its rights along, and the first is, the ability to protect itself.”

  “I am no casuist, sir,” returned the youth; “but I feel that my father is entitled to my affection, and I would encounter greater risks to prove it to him, in his old age.”

  “A very commendable spirit!” cried the veteran; “come, gentlemen, this business brightens. I confess, at first, it was very bad; but no man can censure him for desiring to see his parent.”

  “And have you proof that such only was your intention?”

  “Yes—here,” said Henry, admitting a ray of hope; “here is proof—my father, my sister, Major Dunwoodie, all know it.”

  “Then, indeed,” returned his immoveable judge, “we may be able to save you. It would be well, sir, to examine further into this business.”

  “Certainly,” said the president with alacrity; “let the elder Mr. Wharton approach and take the oath.”

  The father made an effort at composure, and advancing with a feeble step, he complied with the necessary forms of the court.

  “You are the father of the prisoner?” said Colonel Singleton, in a subdued voice, after pausing a moment in respect for the agitation of the witness.

  “He is my only son.”

  “And what do you know of his visit to your house, on the 29th day of October last?”

  “He came, as he told you, to see me and his sisters.”

  “Was he in disguise?” asked the other judge.

  “He did not wear the uniform of the 60th.”

  “To see his sisters too!” said the president, with great emotion. “Have you daughters, sir?”

  “I have two—both are in this house.”

  “Had he a wig?” interrupted the officer.

  “There was some such thing, I do believe, upon his head.”

  “And how long had you been separated?” asked the president.

  “One year and two months.”

  “Did he wear a loose great coat of coarse materials?” inquired the officer, referring to the paper that contained the charges.

  “There was an over-coat.”

  “And you think that it was to see you, only, that he came out?”

  “Me, and my daughters.”

  “A boy of spirit!” whispered the president to his silent comrade. “I see but little harm in such a freak—’twas imprudent, but then it was kind.”

  “Do you know that your son was entrusted with no commission from Sir Henry Clinton, and that the visit to you was not merely a cloak to other designs.”

  “How can I know it?” said Mr. Wharton, in alarm; “would Sir Henry entrust me with such a business?”

  “Know you any thing of this pass?” exhibiting the paper that Dunwoodie had retained when Wharton was taken.

  “Nothing—upon my honour, nothing,” cried the father, shrinking from the paper as from contagion.

  “On your oath?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you other testimony; this does not avail you, Captain Wharton. You have been taken in a situation where your life is forfeited—the labour of proving your innocence rests with yourself; take time to reflect, and be cool.”

  There was a frightful calmness in the manner of this judge that appalled the prisoner. In the sympathy of Colonel Singleton, he could easily lose sight of his danger; but the obdurate and collected air of the others, was ominous of his fate. He continued silent, casting imploring glances towards his friend. Dunwoodie understood the appeal, and offered himself as a witness. He was sworn and desired to relate what he knew. His statement did not materially alter the case, and Dunwoodie felt that it could not. To him personally but little was known, and that little rather militated against the safety of Henry than otherwise. His account was listened to in silence, and the significant shake of the head that was made by the silent member, spoke too plainly what effect it had produced.

  “Still you think that the prisoner had no other object than what he has avowed,” said the president, when he had ended.

  “None other, I will pledge my life,” cried the major, with fervour.

  “Will you swear it,” asked the immoveable judge.

  “How can I? God alone can tell the heart; but I have known this gentleman from a boy; deceit never formed part of his character. He is above it.”

  “You say that he escaped, and was retaken in open arms,” said the president.

  “He was; nay, he received a wound in the combat. You see he yet moves his arm with difficulty. Would he, think you, sir, have trusted himself where he could fall again into our hands, unless conscious of innocence?”

  “Would André have deserted a field of battle, Major Dunwoodie, had he encountered such an event near Tarrytown?” asked his deliberate examiner. “Is it not natural to youth to seek glory?”

  “Do you call this glory?” exclaimed the major, “an ignominious death, and a tarnished name!”

  “Major Dunwoodie,” returned the other, still with inveterate gravity, “you have acted nobly; your duty has been arduous and severe, but it has been faithfully and honourably discharged—our’s must not be less so.”

  During the examination, the most intense interest prevailed amongst the hearers. With that kind of feeling which could not separate the principle from the cause, most of the auditors thought that if Dunwoodie failed to move the hearts of Henry’s judges, no other possessed the power. Caesar thrust his misshapen form forward; and his features, so expressive of the concern he felt, and so different from the vacant curiosity pictured in the countenances of the other blacks, caught the attention of the silent judge. For the first time he spoke—

  “Let that black be brought forward.”

  It was too late to retreat, and Caesar found himself confronted with a row of rebel officers, before he knew what was uppermost in his thoughts. The others yielded the examination to the one who suggested it, and using all due deliberation, he proceeded accordingly—

  “You know the prisoner?”

  “I tink he ought,” returned the black, in a manner as sententious as that of his examiner.

  “Did he give you the wig, when he threw it aside?”

  “I don’t want ’em,” grumbled Caesar; “got a berry good hair he’self.”

  “Were you employed in carrying any letters or messages, while Captain Wharton was in your master’s house?”

  “I do what a’ tell me,” returned the black.

  “But what did they tell you to do?”

  “Sometime a one ting—sometime anoder.”

  “Enough,” said Colonel Singleton, with dignity; “you have the noble acknowledgement of a gentleman, what more can you obtain from this slave? Captain Wharton, you perceive the unfortunate impression against you? Have you other testimony to adduce?”

  To Henry, there now remained but little hope; his confidence in his security was fast ebbing, but with an indefinite expectation of assistance from the loveliness of his sister, he fixed an earnest gaze on the pallid features of Frances. She arose, and with a tottering step moved towards the judges; the paleness of her cheek continued but for a moment, and gave place to a flush of fire, and with a light but firm tread, she stood before them. Raising her hand to her polished forehead, Frances threw aside her exuberant locks, and displayed a picture of beauty and innocence to their view that might have moved even sterner natures. The president shrouded his eyes for a moment, as if the wild eye and speaking countenance recalled the image of another. The movement was transient, and recovering himself, he said, with an earnestness that betrayed his secret wishes—

  “To you, then, your brother previously communicated his intention of paying your family a secret visit?”

  “No!�
��no!” said Frances, pressing her hand on her brain, as if to collect her thoughts; “he told me nothing—we knew not of the visit until he arrived; but can it be necessary to explain to gallant men, that a child would incur hazard to meet his only parent, and that in times like these, and in a situation like ours.”

  “But, was this the first time? Did he never even talk of doing so before?” inquired the colonel, leaning towards her with paternal interest.

  “Certainly—certainly,” cried Frances, catching the expression of his own benevolent countenance. “This is but the fourth of his visits.”

  “I knew it!” exclaimed the veteran, rubbing his hands with delight; “an adventurous, warm-hearted son—I warrant me, gentlemen, a fiery soldier in the field! In what disguises did he come?”

  “In none, for none were then necessary; the royal troops covered the country, and gave him safe passage.”

  “And was this the first of his visits, out of the uniform of his regiment?” asked the colonel in a suppressed voice, avoiding the penetrating looks of his companions.

  “Oh! the very first,” exclaimed the eager girl; “his first offence, I do assure you, if offence it be.”

  “But you wrote him—you urged the visit; surely, young lady, you wished to see your brother?” added the impatient colonel.

  “That we wished it, and prayed for it, oh! how fervently we prayed for it, is true; but to have held communion with the royal army, would have endangered our father, and we dare not.”

  “Did he leave the house until taken, or had he intercourse with any out of your own dwelling?”

  “With none—no one, excepting our neighbour, the pedlar Birch.”

  “With whom?” exclaimed the colonel, turning pale, and shrinking as from the sting of an adder.

  Dunwoodie groaned aloud, and striking his head with his hand, cried, in piercing tones, “He is lost!” and rushed from the apartment.

  “But Harvey Birch,” repeated Frances, gazing wildly at the door through which her lover had disappeared.

  “Harvey Birch!” echoed all the judges. The two immoveable members of the court exchanged looks, and threw an inquisitive glance at their prisoner.

  “To you, gentlemen, it can be no new intelligence to hear that Harvey Birch is suspected of favouring the royal cause,” said Henry, again advancing before the judges; “for he has already been condemned by your tribunals to the fate that I now see awaits myself. I will, therefore, explain, that it was by his assistance I procured the disguise, and passed your picquets; but, to my dying moment, and with my dying breath, I will avow, that my intentions were as pure as the innocent being before you.”

  “Captain Wharton,” said the president solemnly, “the enemies of American liberty have made mighty and subtle efforts to overthrow our power. A more dangerous man for his means and education, is not ranked among our foes, than this pedlar of West-Chester. He is a spy—artful—delusive and penetrating, beyond the abilities of any of his class. Sir Henry could not do better than to associate him with the officer in his next attempt.—He would have saved André. Indeed, young man, this is a connexion that may prove fatal to you!”

  The honest indignation that beamed on the countenance of the aged warrior, was met by a look of perfect conviction on the part of his comrades.

  “I have ruined him!” cried Frances, clasping her hands in terror; “do you desert us! then he is lost, indeed.”

  “Forbear!—lovely innocent—forbear!” said the colonel, with strong emotion; “you injure none, but distress us all.”

  “Is it then such a crime to possess natural affection?” said Frances wildly; “would Washington—the noble—upright—impartial Washington, judge so harshly? delay, till Washington can hear his tale.”

  “It is impossible,” said the president, covering his eyes, as if to hide her beauty from his view.

  “Impossible! oh! but for a week suspend your judgment.—On my knees I entreat you; as you will expect mercy yourself, when no human power can avail you, give him but a day.”

  “It is impossible,” repeated the colonel, in a voice that was nearly choked; “our orders are peremptory, and too long delay has been given already.”

  He turned from the kneeling suppliant, but could not, or would not, extricate the hand that she grasped with frenzied fervour.

  “Remand your prisoner,” said one of the judges, to the officer who was in charge of Henry. “Colonel Singleton, shall we withdraw?”

  “Singleton! Singleton!” echoed Frances, “then you are a father, and know how to pity a father’s woes; you cannot, will not, wound a heart that is now nearly crushed. Hear me, Colonel Singleton; as God will listen to your dying prayers, hear me, and spare my brother.”

  “Remove her,” said the colonel, gently endeavouring to extricate his hand; but none appeared disposed to obey. Frances eagerly strove to read the expression of his averted face, and resisted all his efforts to retire.

  “Colonel Singleton! how lately was your own son in suffering and in danger? under the roof of my father he was cherished—under my father’s roof he found shelter and protection. Oh! suppose that son the pride of your age, the solace and protector of your orphan children, and then pronounce my brother guilty if you dare!”

  “What right has Heath to make an executioner of me!” exclaimed the veteran fiercely, rising with a face flushed like fire, and every vein and artery swollen with suppressed emotion. “But I forget myself—come gentlemen, let us mount, our painful duty must be done.”

  “Mount not!—go not!” shrieked Frances; “can you tear a son from his parent? a brother from his sister, so coldly? Is this the cause I have so ardently loved? Are these the men that I have been taught to reverence? But you relent, you do hear me, you will pity and forgive.”

  “Lead on, gentlemen,” said the colonel, motioning towards the door, and erecting himself into an air of military grandeur, in the vain hope of quieting his feelings.

  “Lead not on, but hear me,” cried Frances, grasping his hand convulsively; “Colonel Singleton you are a father!—pity—mercy—mercy, for the son—mercy for the daughter! Yes—you had a daughter. On this bosom she poured out her last breath; these hands closed her eyes; these very hands, that are now clasped in prayer, did those offices for her, that you condemn my poor, poor brother to require.”

  One mighty emotion the veteran struggled with and quelled, but with a groan that shook his whole frame. He even looked around in conscious pride at his victory; but a second burst of feeling conquered.—His head, white with the frost of seventy winters, sunk upon the shoulder of the frantic suppliant. The sword that had been his companion in so many fields of blood, dropped from his nerveless hand, and as he cried—

  “May God bless you for the deed!” he wept aloud.

  Long and violent was the indulgence that Colonel Singleton yielded to his feelings. On recovering, he gave the senseless Frances into the arms of her aunt, and turning with an air of fortitude to his comrades, he said—

  “Still, gentlemen, we have our duty as officers to discharge;—our feelings as men may be indulged hereafter. What is your pleasure with the prisoner?”

  One of the judges placed in his hand a written sentence that he had prepared, while the colonel was engaged with Frances, and declared it to be the opinion of himself and his companion.

  It briefly stated, that Henry Wharton had been detected in passing the lines of the American army as a spy, and in disguise. That, thereby, according to the laws of war, he was liable to suffer death, and that this court adjudged him to the penalty—recommending him to be executed, by hanging, before nine o’clock on the following morning.

  It was not usual to inflict capital punishments even on the enemy, without referring the case to the Commander-in-Chief, for his approbation; or, in his absence, to the officer commanding for the time being. But, as Washington held his head-q
uarters at New-Windsor, on the western bank of the Hudson, sufficient time was yet before them to receive his answer.

  “This is short notice,” said the veteran, holding the pen in his hand, in a suspense that had no object; “not a day to fit one so young for heaven?”

  “The royal officers gave Hale* but an hour,” returned his comrade; “we have granted the usual time. But Washington has the power to extend it, or to pardon.”

  “Then to Washington will I go,” cried the colonel, returning the paper with his signature, “and if the services of an old man like me, or that brave boy of mine, entitle me to his ear, I will yet save the youth.”

  So saying, he departed, full of his generous intentions in favour of Henry Wharton.

  The sentence of the court was communicated, with proper tenderness, to the prisoner; and after giving a few necessary instructions to the officer in command, and despatching a courier to head-quarters with their report, the remaining judges mounted, and rode to their own quarters, with the same unmoved exterior, but with the consciousness of the same dispassionate integrity, that they had maintained throughout the trial.

  * An American officer of this name, was detected within the British lines, in disguise, in search of military information. He was tried, and executed, as stated in the text, as soon as the preparations could be made. It is said, that he was reproached, under the gallows, with dishonoring the rank he held, by his fate. “What a death for an officer, to die!” said one of his captors. “Gentlemen, any death is honorable, when a man dies in a cause like that of America—” was his answer.

  André was executed amid the tears of his enemies; Hale died, unpitied, and with reproaches in his ears: And yet one was the victim of ambition, and the other of his devotion to his country. Posterity will do justice between them.

  Chapter XXVII

  “Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,