The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Lawton witnessed these operations in silence, nor did he open his mouth, until the field was covered with parties of the flying Americans.—Then, indeed, he seemed stung with the disgrace thus heaped upon the arms of his country. Spurring Roanoke along the side of the hill, he called to the fugitives, in all the strength of his powerful voice. He pointed to the enemy, and assured his countrymen that they had mistaken the way. There was such a mixture of indifference and irony in his exhortations, that a few paused in surprise—more joined them, until roused by the example of the trooper, and stimulated by their own spirit, they demanded to be led against their foe, once more.

  “Come on then, my brave friends!” shouted the trooper, turning his horse’s head towards the British line, one flank of which was very near him; “come on, and hold your fire until it will scorch their eye-brows.”

  The men sprang forward, and followed his example, neither giving nor receiving a fire, until they had come within a very short distance of the enemy. An English sergeant, who had been concealed by a rock, enraged with the audacity of the officer who thus dared their arms, stept from behind his cover, and advancing within a few yards of the trooper levelled his musket—

  “Fire, and you die,” cried Lawton, spurring his charger, which leaped forward at the instant. The action and the tone of his voice shook the nerves of the Englishman, who drew his trigger with an uncertain aim. Roanoke sprang with all his feet from the earth, and, plunging, fell headlong and lifeless at the feet of his destroyer. Lawton kept his feet, standing face to face with his enemy. The latter presented his bayonet, and made a desperate thrust at the trooper’s heart. The steel of their weapons emitted sparks of fire, and the bayonet flew fifty feet in the air. At the next moment its owner lay a quivering corpse.

  “Come on!” shouted the trooper, as a body of English appeared on the rock and threw in a close fire; “come on,” he repeated, and brandished his sabre fiercely. Then his gigantic form fell backward like a majestic pine yielding to the axe, but still, as he slowly fell, he continued to wield his sabre, and once more the deep tones of his voice were heard uttering, “come on!”

  The advancing Americans paused aghast, and turning, they abandoned the field to the royal troops.

  It was neither the intention nor the policy of the English commander to pursue his success, for he well knew that strong parties of the Americans would soon arrive; accordingly, he only tarried to collect his wounded, and forming into a square, he commenced his retreat towards the shipping.—Within twenty minutes of the fall of Lawton, the ground was deserted by both English and Americans.

  When the inhabitants of the country were called upon to enter the field, they were necessarily attended by such surgical advisers, as were furnished by the low state of the profession in the interior, at that day. Dr. Sitgreaves entertained quite as profound a contempt for the medical attendants of the militia, as the captain did of the troops themselves. He wandered, therefore, around the field, casting many a glance of disapprobation at the slight operations that came under his eye; but, when among the flying troops, he found that his comrade and friend was no where to be seen, he hastened back to the spot at which Hollister was posted, to inquire if the trooper had returned. Of course, the answer was in the negative. Filled with a thousand uneasy conjectures, the surgeon, without regarding, or indeed without at all reflecting, upon any dangers that might lie in his way, strode over the ground at an enormous rate, to the point where he knew the final struggle had been. Once before, the surgeon had rescued his friend from death, in a similar situation, and he felt a secret joy in his own conscious skill, as he perceived Betty Flanagan seated on the ground, holding in her lap the head of a man, whose size and dress he knew could belong only to the trooper. As he approached the spot, the surgeon became alarmed at the aspect of the washerwoman. Her little black bonnet was thrown aside, and her hair, which was already streaked with gray, hung around her face in disorder.

  “John! dear John!” said the Doctor, tenderly, as he bent and laid his hand upon the senseless wrist of the trooper, from which it recoiled with an intuitive knowledge of his fate, “John! dear John, where are you hurt?—can I help you?”

  “Yee talk to the senseless clay,” said Betty, rocking her body, and unconsciously playing with the raven ringlets of the trooper’s hair; “it’s no more will he hear, and it’s but little will he mind yee’r probes and yee’r med’cines. Och! hone—och! hone—and where will be the liberty now? or who will there be to fight the battle, or gain the day?”

  “John!” repeated the surgeon, still unwilling to believe the evidence of his unerring senses; “dear John, speak to me—say what you will, that you do but speak. Oh! God! he is dead; would that I had died with him!”

  “There is but little use in living and fighting now,” said Betty; “both him and the baste!—see, there is the poor cratur, and here is the master! I fed the horse with my own hands the day; and the last male that he ate, was of my own cooking. Och! hone—och! hone—that Captain Jack should live to be killed by the rig’lars!”

  “John!—my dear John!” said the surgeon, with convulsive sobs, “thy hour has come, and many a more prudent man survives thee—but none better, nor braver. Oh! John, thou wert to me a kind friend, and very dear; it is unphilosophical to grieve—but for thee, John, I must weep, even in bitterness of heart!”

  The Doctor buried his face in his hands, and for several minutes sat yielding to an ungovernable burst of sorrow; while the washerwoman gave vent to her grief in words—moving her body in a kind of writhing, and playing with different parts of her favorite’s dress with her fingers.

  “And who’ll there be to incourage the boys now?” she said: “oh! Captain Jack!—Captain Jack! yee was the sowl of the troop, and it was but little we know’d of the danger, and yee fighting. Och! he was no maly mouth’d, that quarrelled wid a widowed woman for the matter of a burn in the mate, or the want of a breakfast. Taste a drop, darling, and it may be, ’twill revive yee. Och! and he’ll nivir taste agin—here’s the Doctor, honey, him yee used to blarney wid, wapeing as if the poor sowl would die for yee. Och! he’s gone—he’s gone, and the liberty is gone wid him.”

  A thundering sound of horses’ feet came rolling along the road, which led near the place where Lawton lay, and directly the whole body of Virginians appeared, with Dunwoodie at their head. The news of the captain’s fate had reached him; for the instant that he saw the body, he halted the squadron, and dismounting, approached the spot. The countenance of Lawton was not in the least distorted, but the angry frown which had lowered over his brow, during the battle, was fixed even in death. His frame was composed, and stretched as in sleep. Dunwoodie took hold of his hand, and gazed a moment in silence;—his own dark eye kindled, and the paleness which had overspread his features, was succeeded by a spot of deep red in either cheek.

  “With his own sword will I avenge him!” he cried, endeavouring to take the weapon from the hand of Lawton—but the grasp resisted his utmost strength. “It shall be buried with him:—Sitgreaves, take care of our friend, while I revenge his death.”

  The major hastened back to his charger, and led the way in pursuit of the enemy.

  While Dunwoodie had been thus engaged, the body of Lawton lay in open view of the whole squadron. He was a universal favourite, and the sight inflamed the men to the utmost: neither officers nor soldiers possessed that coolness which is necessary to ensure success in military operations; but they spurred ardently after their enemies, burning with a wish for vengeance.

  The English were formed in a hollow square, which contained their wounded, who were far from numerous, and were marching steadily across a very uneven country, as the dragoons approached. The horse charged in column, and were led by Dunwoodie, who, burning with revenge, thought to ride through their ranks, and scatter them at a blow. But the enemy knew their own strength too well, and standing firm, they received the charge on the
points of their bayonets. The horses of the Virginians recoiled, and the rear rank of the foot throwing in a close fire, the major, with a few men fell. The English continued their retreat the moment they were extricated from their assailants; and Dunwoodie, who was severely, but not dangerously wounded, recalled his men from further attempts, which in that stony country must necessarily be fruitless.

  A sad duty remained to be fulfilled:—the dragoons retired slowly through the hills, conveying their wounded commander, and the body of Lawton. The latter they interred under the ramparts of one of the highland forts, and the former they consigned to the tender care of his afflicted bride.

  Many weeks were gone, before the major was restored to sufficient strength to be removed. During those weeks, how often did he bless the moment that gave him a right to the services of his beautiful nurse! She hung around his couch with fond attention; administered with her own hands every prescription of the indefatigable Sitgreaves; and grew each hour in the affections and esteem of her husband. An order from Washington soon sent the troops into winter quarters, and permission was given to Dunwoodie to repair to his own plantation, with the rank of Lieut.-Colonel, in order to complete the restoration of his health. Captain Singleton made one of the party; and the whole family retired from the active scenes of the war, to the ease and plenty of the major’s own estate. Before leaving Fishkill, however, letters were conveyed to them, through an unknown hand, acquainting them with Henry’s safety and good health; and also that Colonel Wellmere had left the continent for his native island, lowered in the estimation of every honest man in the royal army.

  It was a happy winter for Dunwoodie, and smiles once more began to play around the lovely mouth of Frances.

  Chapter XXXIV

  “Midst furs, and silks, and jewels sheen,

  He stood, in simple Lincoln green,

  The centre of the glittering ring;

  And Snowdown’s knight is Scotland’s King!”

  Lady of the Lake.

  * * *

  THE COMMENCEMENT of the following year was passed on the part of the Americans in making great preparations, in conjunction with their allies, to bring the war to a close. In the south, Greene and Rawdon made a bloody campaign, that was highly honorable to the troops of the latter,—but which, by terminating entirely to the advantage of the former, proved him to be the better General of the two.

  New York was the point that was threatened by the allied armies, and Washington, by exciting a constant apprehension for the safety of that city, prevented such reinforcements from being sent to Cornwallis, as would have enabled him to improve his success.

  At length as autumn approached, every indication was given that the final moment had arrived.

  The French forces drew near to the Royal lines, passing through the Neutral Ground, and threatened an attack in the direction of Kings-bridge, while large bodies of the Americans were acting in concert. By hovering around the British posts, and drawing nigh in the Jerseys, they seemed to threaten the royal forces from that quarter also. The preparations partook of the nature of both a siege and a storm. But Sir Henry Clinton, in the possession of intercepted letters from Washington, rested securely within his lines, and cautiously disregarded the solicitations of Cornwallis for succour.

  It was at the close of a stormy day in the month of September, that a large assemblage of officers was collected near the door of a building, that was situated in the heart of the American troops, who held the Jerseys. The age, the dress, and the dignity of deportment, of most of these warriors, indicated them to be of high rank; but to one in particular was paid a deference and obedience, that announced him to be of the highest. His dress was plain, but it bore the usual military distinctions of command. He was mounted on a noble animal of a deep bay, and a groupe of young men, in gayer attire, evidently awaited his pleasure, and did his bidding. Many a hat was lifted, as its owner addressed this officer, and when he spoke, a profound attention, exceeding the respect of mere professional etiquette, was exhibited on every countenance. At length the General raised his own hat, and bowed gravely to all around him. The salute was returned, and the party dispersed, leaving the officer without a single attendant, except his body servants and one aid-de-camp. Dismounting, he stepped back a few paces, and for a moment, viewed the condition of his horse with the eye of one who well understood the animal, and then casting a brief but expressive glance at his aid, he retired into the building, followed by that gentleman.

  On entering an apartment that was apparently fitted for his reception, he took a seat, and continued for a long time in a thoughtful attitude, like one in the habit of communing much with himself. During the silence, the aid-de-camp stood in expectation of his orders. At length the General raised his eyes, and spoke in those low placid tones that seemed natural to him.

  “Has the man whom I wished to see arrived, sir?”

  “He waits the pleasure of your Excellency.”

  “I will receive him here, and alone, if you please.”

  The aid bowed and withdrew. In a few minutes the door again opened, and a figure gliding into the apartment, stood modestly at a distance from the General, without speaking. His entrance was unheard by the officer, who sat gazing at the fire, still absorbed in his own meditations.—Several minutes passed, when he spoke to himself in an under tone—

  “To-morrow we must raise the curtain, and expose our plans. May heaven prosper them!”

  A slight movement made by the stranger caught his ear, and he turned his head and saw that he was not alone. He pointed silently to the fire, towards which the figure advanced, although the multitude of his garments, which seemed more calculated for disguise than comfort, rendered its warmth unnecessary—a second mild and courteous gesture motioned to a vacant chair, but the stranger refused it with a modest acknowledgment—another pause followed, and continued for some time; at length the officer arose and opening a desk that was laid upon the table near which he sat, took from it a small, but apparently a heavy bag.—

  “Harvey Birch,” he said, turning to the stranger, “the time has arrived when our connexion must cease; henceforth and forever we must be strangers.”

  The pedlar dropped the folds of the great coat that concealed his features, and gazed for a moment earnestly at the face of the speaker; then dropping his head upon his bosom, he said meekly—

  “If it be your Excellency’s pleasure.”

  “It is necessary—since I have filled the station which I now hold, it has become my duty to know many men, who, like yourself, have been my instruments in procuring intelligence—you have I trusted more than all; I early saw in you a regard to truth and principle that, I am pleased to say, has never deceived me—you alone know my secret agents in the city, and on your fidelity depends, not only their fortunes, but their lives.”

  He paused, as if to reflect, in order that full justice might be done to the pedlar, and then continued—

  “I believe you are one of the very few that I have employed, who have acted faithfully to our cause; and while you have passed as a spy of the enemy, have never given intelligence that you were not permitted to divulge; to me, and to me only of all the world, you seem to have acted with a strong attachment to the liberties of America.”

  During this address, Harvey gradually raised his head from his bosom, until it reached the highest point of elevation; a faint tinge gathered in his cheeks, and as the officer concluded, it was diffused over his whole countenance in a deep glow, while he stood proudly swelling with his emotions, but with eyes that modestly sought the feet of the speaker.—

  “It is now my duty to pay you for these services—hitherto you have postponed receiving your reward, and the debt has become a heavy one—I wish not to undervalue your dangers; here are an hundred doubloons. You will remember the poverty of our country, and attribute to it the smallness of your pay.”

  The pedlar ra
ised his eyes to the countenance of the speaker but as the other held forth the money, he moved back, as if refusing the bag.

  “It is not much for your services and risks, I acknowledge,” continued the General, “but it is all that I have to offer; at the end of the campaign, it may be in my power to increase it.”

  “Does your Excellency think, that I have exposed my life and blasted my character, for money?”

  “If not for money, what then?”

  “What has brought your Excellency into the field? For what do you daily and hourly expose your precious life to battle and the halter? What is there about me to mourn, when such men as you risk their all for our country? No—no—no—not a dollar of your gold will I touch; poor America has need of it all!”

  The bag dropped from the hand of the officer, and fell at the feet of the pedlar, where it lay neglected during the remainder of the interview. The officer looked steadily at the face of his companion, and continued—

  “There are many motives which might govern me, that to you are unknown. Our situations are different; I am known as the leader of armies—but you must descend into the grave with the reputation of a foe to your native land. Remember, that the veil which conceals your true character cannot be raised in years—perhaps never.”