The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  In a mixed society, where pleasure, company, and a multitude of objects conspired to distract the attention, such alterations would be the result of an intercourse for months, if they ever occurred; but in a town like Boston, from which most of those with whom Cecil had once mingled were already fled, and where those who remained behind, lived chiefly for themselves and by themselves, it was no more than the obvious effect of very apparent causes. In this manner something like good-will, if not a deeper interest in each other, was happily effected within that memorable fortnight, which was teeming with events vastly more important in their results than any that can appertain to the fortunes of a single family.

  The winter of 1774–5 had been as remarkable for its mildness, as the spring was cold and lingering. Like every season in our changeable climate, however, the chilling days of March and April were intermingled with some, when a genial sun recalled the ideas of summer, which, in their turn, were succeeded by others, when the torrents of cold rain that drove before the easterly gales, would seem to repel every advance toward a milder temperature. Many of those stormy days occurred in the middle of April, and during their continuance Lionel was necessarily compelled to keep himself housed.

  He had retired from the parlour of Mrs. Lechmere, one evening, when the rain was beating against the windows of the house, in nearly horizontal lines, to complete some letters which, before dining, he had commenced to the agent of his family, in England. On entering his own apartment, he was startled to find the room, which he had left vacant, and which he expected to find in the same state, occupied in a manner that he could not anticipate. The light of a strong wood fire was blazing on the hearth, and throwing about, in playful changes, the flickering shadows of the furniture, magnifying each object into some strange and fantastical figure. As he stepped within the door his eye fell upon one of these shadows, which extended along the wall, and bending against the ceiling, exhibited the gigantic but certain outlines of the human form. Recollecting that he had left his letters open, and a little distrusting the discretion of Meriton, Lionel advanced lightly, for a few feet, so far as to be able to look round the drapery of his bed, and to his amazement, he perceived that the intruder was not his valet, but the aged stranger. The old man sat holding the open letter which Lionel had been writing, and continued so deeply absorbed in its contents, that the footsteps of the other were disregarded. A large, coarse over-coat, dripping with water, concealed most of his person, though the white hairs that strayed about his face, and the deep lines of his remarkable countenance could not be mistaken.

  “I was ignorant of this unexpected visit,” said Lionel, advancing quickly into the centre of the room, “or I should not have been so tardy in returning to my apartment, where, sir, I fear you must have found your time irksome, with nothing but that scrawl to amuse you.”

  The old man dropped the paper, and betrayed, by the action, the large drops that followed each other down his hollow cheeks, until they fell even to the floor. The haughty and displeased look disappeared from the countenance of Lionel at this sight, and he was on the point of speaking in a more conciliating manner, when the stranger, whose eye had not quailed before the angry frown it encountered, anticipated his intention.

  “I comprehend you, major Lincoln,” he said, calmly; “but there can exist justifiable reasons for a greater breach of faith than this, of which you accuse me. Accident, and not intention, has put me in possession, here, of your most secret thoughts on a subject that has deep interest for me. You have urged me often, during our voyage, to make you acquainted with all that you most desire to know, to which request, as you may remember, I have ever been silent.”

  “You have said, sir, that you were master of a secret in which my feelings, I will acknowledge, are deeply interested, and I have urged you to remove my doubts by declaring the truth; but I do not perceive”—

  “How a desire to possess my secret, gives me a claim to inquire into yours, you would say,” interrupted the stranger; “nor does it. But an interest in your affairs, that you cannot yet understand, and which is vouched for by these scalding tears, the first that have fallen in years from a fountain that I had thought dried, should, and must satisfy you.”

  “It does,” said Lionel, affected by the melancholy tones of his voice, “it does, it does, and I will listen to no further explanation on the unpleasant subject. You see nothing there, I am sure, of which a son can have reason to be ashamed.”

  “I see much here, Lionel Lincoln, of which a father would have reason to be proud,” returned the old man. “It was the filial love which you have displayed in this paper which has drawn these drops from my eyes; for he who has lived as I have done, beyond the age of man, without knowing the love that the parent feels for its offspring, or which the child bears to the author of its being, must have outlived his natural sympathies, not to be conscious of his misfortune, when chance makes him sensible of affections like these.”

  “You have never been a father, then?” said Lionel, drawing a chair nigh to his aged companion, and seating himself with a powerful interest, that he could not control.

  “I have been both husband and parent, in my day, but ’tis so long since, that no selfish tie remains to bind me to earth. Old age is the neighbour of death, and the chill of the grave is to be found in its warmest breathings.”

  “Say not so,” interrupted Lionel, “for you do injustice to your own warm nature—you forget your zeal in behalf of what you deem these oppressed colonies.”

  “’Tis no more than the flickering of the dying lamp, which flares and dazzles most, when its source of heat is nighest to extinction. But though I may not infuse into your bosom a warmth that I do not possess myself, I can point out the dangers with which life abounds, and serve as a beacon, when no longer useful as a pilot. For such a purpose, Major Lincoln, I have braved the tempest of to-night.”

  “Has any thing occurred, which, by rendering danger pressing, can make such an exposure necessary?”

  “Look at me,” said the old man earnestly—“I have seen most of this flourishing country a wilderness; my recollection goes back into those periods when the savage, and the beast of the forest, contended with our fathers for much of that soil which now supports its hundreds of thousands in plenty; and my time is to be numbered, not by years, but by ages. For such a being, think you there can yet be many months, or weeks, or even days in store?”

  Lionel dropped his eyes, in embarrassment, to the floor, as he answered—

  “You cannot have very many years, surely, to hope for; but with the activity and temperance you possess, days and months confine you, I trust, in limits much too small.”

  “What!” exclaimed the other, stretching forth a colourless hand, in which even the prominent veins partook in the appearance of a general decay of nature; “with these wasted limbs, these gray hairs, and this sunken and sepulchral cheek, would you talk to me of years! to me, who have not the effrontery to petition for even minutes, were they worth the prayer—so long and weary has been my probation!”

  “It is certainly time to think of the change, when it approaches so very near.”

  “Well, then, Lionel Lincoln, old, feeble, and on the threshold of eternity as I stand, yet am I not nearer to my grave than that country to which you have pledged your blood is to a mighty convulsion, which will shake her institutions to their foundations.”

  “I cannot admit the signs of the times to be quite so portentous as your fears would make them,” said Lionel, smiling. “Though the worst that is apprehended should arrive, England will feel the shock but as the earth bears an eruption of one of its volcanoes! But we talk in idle figures, Sir; know you any thing to justify the apprehension of immediate danger?”

  The face of the stranger lighted with a sudden gleam, and a sarcastic smile passed across his wan features, as he answered—

  “They only have cause to fear who will be the loser
s by the change! A youth who casts off the trammels of his guardians is not apt to doubt his ability to govern himself. England has held these colonies so long in leading-strings, that she forgets her offspring is able to go alone.”

  “Now, Sir, you exceed even the wild projects of the most daring among those who call themselves the ‘Sons of Liberty’—as if liberty existed in any place more favoured or more nurtured than under the blessed constitution of England! The utmost required is what they term a redress of grievances, many of which, I must think, exist only in imagination.”

  “Was a stone ever known to roll upward! Let there be but one drop of American blood spilt in anger, and its stain will become indelible.”

  “Unhappily, the experiment has been already tried; and yet years have rolled by, while England keeps her footing and authority good.”

  “Her authority!” repeated the old man; “see you not, Major Lincoln, in the forbearance of this people, when they felt themselves in the wrong, the existence of the very principles that will render them invincible and unyielding when right? But we waste our time—I came to conduct you to a place where, with your own ears, and with your own eyes, you may hear and see a little of the spirit which pervades the land—You will follow?”

  “Not surely in such a tempest!”

  “This tempest is but a trifle to that which is about to break upon you, unless you retrace your steps; but follow, I repeat; if a man of my years disregards the night, ought an English soldier to hesitate!”

  The pride of Lionel was touched; and remembering an engagement he had previously made with his aged friend to accompany him to a scene like this, he made such changes in his dress as would serve to conceal his profession, threw on a large cloak to protect his person, and was about to lead the way himself, when he was aroused by the voice of the other.

  “You mistake the route,” he said; “this is to be a secret, and I hope a profitable visit—none must know of your presence; and if you are a worthy son of your honourable father, I need hardly add that my faith is pledged for your discretion.”

  “The pledge will be respected, Sir,” said Lionel; “but in order to see what you wish, we are not to remain here?”

  “Follow, then, and be silent,” said the old man, turning and opening the door which led into a little apartment lighted by one of those smaller windows, already mentioned in describing the exterior of the building. The passage was dark and narrow, but, observing the warnings of his companion, Lionel succeeded in descending, in safety, a flight of steps which formed a private communication between the offices of the dwelling and its upper apartments. They paused an instant at the bottom of the stairs, where the youth expressed his amazement that a stranger should be so much more familiar with the building than he who had for so many days made it his home.

  “Have I not often told you,” returned the old man, with a severity in his voice which was even apparent in its suppressed tones, “that I have known Boston for near an hundred years! how many edifices like this does it contain, that I should not have noted its erection! But follow in silence, and be prudent.”

  He now opened a door which conducted them through one end of the building, into the court-yard in which it was situated. As they emerged into the open air, Lionel perceived the figure of a man, crouching under the walls, as if seeking a shelter from the driving rain. The moment they appeared, this person arose, and followed as they moved towards the street.

  “Are we not watched?” said Lionel, stopping to face the unknown; “whom have we skulking in our footsteps?”

  “’Tis the boy,” said the old man, for whom we must adopt the name of Ralph, which it would appear was the usual term used by Job when addressing his mother’s guest—“’tis the boy, and he can do us no harm. God has granted to him a knowledge between much of what is good and that which is evil, though the mind of the child is, at times, sadly weakened by bodily ailings. His heart, however, is with his country, at a moment when she needs all hearts to maintain her rights.”

  The young British officer bowed his head to meet the tempest, and smiled within the folds of his cloak, which he drew more closely around his form, as they met the gale in the open streets of the town. They had passed swiftly through many narrow and crooked ways, before another word was uttered between the adventurers. Lionel mused on the singular and indefinable interest that he took in the movements of his companion, which could draw him at a time like this from the shelter of Mrs. Lechmere’s roof, to wander he knew not whither, and on an errand which might even be dangerous to his person. Still he followed, unhesitatingly, for with these passing thoughts were blended the recollection of the many recent and interesting communications he had held with the old man during their long and close association in the ship; nor was he wanting in a natural interest for all that involved the safety and happiness of the place of his birth. He kept the form of his aged guide in his eye, as the other moved before him, careless of the tempest which beat on his withered frame, and he heard the heavy footsteps of Job in his rear, who had closed so near his own person as to share, in some measure, in the shelter of his cloak. But no other living being seemed to have ventured abroad; and even the few sentinels they passed, instead of pacing in front of those doors which it was their duty to guard, were concealed behind the angles of the walls, or sought shelter under the projections of some favouring roof. At moments the wind rushed into the narrow streets, along which it swept, with a noise not unlike the roaring of the sea, and with a violence which was nearly irresistible. At such times Lionel was compelled to pause, and even frequently to recede a little from his path, while his guide, supported by his high purpose, and but little obstructed by his garments, seemed, to the bewildered imagination of his follower, to glide through the night with a facility that was supernatural. At length the old man, who had got some distance ahead of his followers, suddenly paused, and allowed Lionel to approach to his side. The latter observed with surprise, that he had stopped before the root and stump of a tree which had once grown on the borders of the street, and which appeared to have been recently felled.

  “Do you see this remnant of the Elm?” said Ralph, when the others had stopped also; “their axes have succeeded in destroying the mother-plant, but her scions are flourishing throughout a continent!”

  “I do not comprehend you!” returned Lionel; “I see here nothing but the stump of some tree; surely the ministers of the king are not answerable that it stands no longer?”

  “The ministers of the king are answerable to their master that it has ever become what it is—speak to the boy at your side, he will tell you of its virtues.”

  Lionel turned towards Job, and perceived, by the obscure light of the moon, to his surprise, that the idiot stood with his head bared to the storm, regarding the root with evident awe and reverence.

  “This is a mystery to me!” he said; “what do you know about this stump to stand in awe of, boy?”

  “’Tis the root of ‘Liberty-tree,’” said Job, “and ’tis wicked to pass it without making your manners!”

  “And what has this tree done for liberty, that it has merited so much respect?”

  “What! did you ever see a tree afore this that could write and give notices of town-meetin-da’s, or that could tell the people what the king meant to do with the tea and his stamps!”

  “And could this marvellous tree work such miracles?”

  “To be sure it could, and it did too—you let stingy Tommy think to get above the people with any of his cunning over night, and you might come here next morning and read a warning on the bark of this tree, that would tell all about it, and how to put down his deviltries, written out fair, in a hand as good as master Lovell himself could put on paper, the best day of his grand scholarship.”

  “And who put the paper there?”

  “Who!” exclaimed Job, a little positively; “why Liberty came in the night, and pasted it up
herself. When Nab couldn’t get a house to live in, Job used to sleep under the tree, sometimes, and many a night has he seen Liberty with his own eyes come and put up the paper.”

  “And was it a woman?”

  “Do you think Liberty was such a fool as to come every time in woman’s clothes, to be followed by the rake-helly soldiers about the streets!” said Job, with great contempt in his manner. “Sometimes she did, though, and sometimes she didn’t; just as it happened. And Job was in the tree when old Noll had to give up his ungodly stamps; though he didn’t do it till the ‘Sons of Liberty’ had chucked his stamp-shop in the dock, and hung him and Lord Boot together, on the branches of the old Elm!”

  “Hung!” said Lionel, unconsciously drawing back from the spot; “was it ever a gallows!”

  “Yes, for iffigies,” said Job, laughing; “I wish you could have been here to see how the old boot, with Satan sticking out on’t, whirled about when they swung it off! they give the old boy a big shoe to put his cloven-huff in!”

  Lionel, who was familiar with the peculiar sound that his townsmen gave to the letter u, now comprehended the allusion to the Earl of Bute, and beginning to understand more clearly the nature of the transactions, and the uses to which that memorable tree had been applied, he expressed his desire to proceed.*

  The old man had suffered Job to make his own explanations, though not without a curious interest in the effect they would produce on Lionel; but the instant the request was made to advance, he turned, and led the way. Their course was now directed more towards the wharves; nor was it long before their conductor turned into a narrow court, and entered a house of rather mean appearance, without even observing the formality of announcing his visit by the ordinary summons of rapping at its door. A long, narrow, and dimly-lighted passage, conducted them to a spacious apartment far in the court, which appeared to have been fitted as a place for the reception of large assemblages of people. In this room were collected at least a hundred men, seemingly intent on some object of more than usual interest, by the gravity and seriousness of demeanor apparent in every countenance.