The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “You know, then, of the secret movements of the night?”

  “Old age, like mine, seldom sleeps,” returned Ralph, looking for the first time at his visiter, “for the eternal night of death promises a speedy repose. I too served an apprenticeship in my youth to your trade of blood.”

  “Your watchfulness and experience have then detected the signs of preparation in the garrison? Have they also discovered the objects, and probable consequences of the enterprise?”

  “Both; Gage weakly thinks to crush the germ of liberty which has already quickened in the land, by lopping its feeble branches, when it is rooted in the hearts of the people. He thinks that bold thoughts can be humbled by the destruction of magazines.”

  “It is then only a measure of precaution that he is about to take?”

  The old man shook his head mournfully as he answered—

  “It will prove a measure of blood.”

  “I intend to accompany the detachment into the country,” said Lionel—“it will probably take post at some little distance in the interior, and it will afford me a fitting opportunity to make those inquiries which you know are so near my heart, and in which you have promised to assist—it is to consult on the means that I have now sought you.”

  The countenance of the stranger seemed to lose its character of melancholy reflection, as Lionel spoke, and his eyes moved, vacant and unmeaning, over the naked rafters above him, passing in their wanderings across the surface of the unheeded map again, until they fell upon the face of the astonished youth, where they remained settled for more than a minute, fixed in the glazed, rivetted look of death. The lips of Lionel had already opened in anxious inquiry, when the expression of life shot again into the features of Ralph, with the suddenness, and with an appearance of the physical reality with which light flashes from the sun when emerging from a cloud.

  “You are ill!” Lionel exclaimed.

  “Leave me,” said the old man, “leave me.”

  “Surely not at such a moment, and alone.”

  “I bid you leave me—we shall meet as you desire, in the country.”

  “You would then have me accompany the troops, and expect your coming?”

  “Both.”

  “Pardon me,” said Lionel, dropping his eyes in embarrassment, and speaking with hesitation, “but your present abode, and the appearance of your attire, is an evidence that old age has come upon you when you are not altogether prepared to meet its sufferings.”

  “You would offer money?”

  “By accepting it, I shall become the obliged party.”

  “When my wants exceed my means, young man, your offer shall be remembered. Go, now; there is no time for delay.”

  “But I would not leave you alone; the woman, the termagant is better than none?”

  “She is absent.”

  “And the boy has the feelings of humanity, and would aid you in extremity.”

  “He is better employed than in propping the steps of a useless old man.—Go then, I entreat—I command, sir, that you leave me.”

  The firm manner in which the other repeated his desire, taught Lionel that he had nothing more to expect at present, and he obeyed reluctantly, leaving the apartment, and as soon as he had descended the ladder he began to retrace his steps towards his own quarters. In crossing the light draw-bridge thrown over the narrow dock, already mentioned, his contemplations were first disturbed by the sounds of voices, at no great distance, apparently conversing in tones that were not intended to be heard by every ear. It was a moment when each unusual incident was likely to induce inquiry, and Lionel stopped to examine two men, who, at a little distance, held their secret and suppressed communications. He had, however, paused but an instant, when the whisperers separated, one walking leisurely up the centre of the square, entering under one of the arches of the market-place, and the other coming directly across the bridge on which he himself was standing.

  “Job, do I find you here, whispering and plotting in the dock-square!” exclaimed Lionel; “what secrets can you have, that require the cover of night?”

  “Job lives there, in the old ware’us’,” said the lad—“Nab has plenty of house room, now the king wont let the people bring in their goods.”

  “But whither are you going into the water! surely the road to your bed cannot be through the town dock.”

  “Nab wants fish to eat, as well as a ruff to keep off the rain,” said Job, dropping lightly from the bridge into a small canoe, which was fastened to one of its posts, “and now the king has closed the harbour the fish have to come up in the dark; for come they will; Boston fish an’t to be shut out by acts of Parliament!”

  “Poor lad! return to your home and your bed; here is money to buy food for your mother if she suffers—you will draw a shot from some of the sentinels by thus going about the harbour at night.”

  “Job can see a ship farther than a ship can see Job,” returned the other; “and if they should kill Job, they need’n’t think to shoot a Boston boy without some stir.”

  Further dialogue was precluded; the canoe gliding along the outer dock into the harbour, with a stillness and swiftness that showed the idiot was not ignorant of the business he had undertaken. Lionel resumed his walk, and was passing the head of the square when he encountered, face to face, under the light of a lamp, the man whose figure he had seen but a minute before issuing from beneath the town-hall. A mutual desire to ascertain the identity of each other drew them together.

  “We meet again, Major Lincoln,” said the interesting stranger Lionel remembered to have seen at the political meeting. “Our interviews appear ordained to occur in secret places.”

  “And Job Pray would seem to be the presiding spirit,” returned the young soldier. “You parted from him but now?”

  “I trust, sir,” said the stranger gravely, “that this is not a land, nor have we fallen on times when and where an honest man dare not say that he has spoken to whom he please.”

  “Certainly, sir, it is not for me to prohibit the intercourse. You spoke of our fathers; mine is well known to you, it would seem, though to me you are a stranger.”

  “And may be so yet a little longer,” said the other, “though I think the time is at hand when men will be known in their true characters; until then, Major Lincoln, I bid you adieu.”

  Without waiting for reply, the stranger took a different direction from that which Lionel was pursuing, and walked away with the swiftness of one who was in haste. Lionel soon ascended into the upper part of the town, with the intention of going into Tremont-street, to communicate his design to accompany the expedition. It was now apparent to the young man, that a rumour of the contemplated movement of the troops was spreading secretly, but swiftly, among the people. He passed several groups of townsmen, conferring together at the corners of the streets, from some of whom he overheard the startling intelligence that the neck, the only approach to the place by land, was closed by a line of sentinels; and that guard-boats from the vessels of war, were encircling the peninsula in a manner to intercept the communication with the adjacent country. Still no indications of a military alarm could be discovered, though, at times, a stifled hum, like the notes of preparation, mingled with those sounds of a Spring evening, which increased as he approached the skirts of the dwellings. In Tremont-street Lionel found no appearance of the excitement which was spreading so rapidly in the old and the lower parts of the town. He passed into his own room without meeting any of the family, and having completed his brief arrangements, he was descending to inquire for his kinswomen, when the voice of Mrs. Lechmere, proceeding from a small apartment, appropriated to her own use, arrested his steps. Anxious to take leave in person, he approached the half-open door, and would have asked permission to enter, had not his eye rested on the person of Abigail Pray, who was in earnest conference with the mistress of the mansion.

 
“A man aged, and poor, say you?” observed Mrs. Lechmere, at that instant.

  “And one that seems to know all,” interrupted Abigail, glancing her eyes about with an expression of superstitious terror.

  “All!” echoed Mrs. Lechmere, her lip trembling more with apprehension than age; “and he arrived with Major Lincoln, say you?”

  “In the same ship; and it seems that heaven has ordained that he shall dwell with me in my poverty, as a punishment for my great sins!”

  “But why do you tolerate his presence, if it be irksome,” said Mrs. Lechmere; “you are at least the mistress of your own dwelling.”

  “It has pleased God that my home shall be the home of any who are so miserable as to need one. He has the same right to live in the warehouse that I have.”

  “You have the rights of a woman, and of first possession,” said Mrs. Lechmere, with that unyielding severity of manner that Lionel had often observed before; “I would turn him into the street, like a dog.”

  “Into the street!” repeated Abigail, again looking about her in terror; “speak lower, madam Lechmere, for the love of heaven—I dare not even look at him—he reminds me of all I have ever known, and of all the evil I have ever done, by his scorching eye—and yet I cannot tell why—and then Job worships him as a god, and if I should offend him, he could easily worm from the child all that you and I so much wish—”

  “How!” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, in a voice husky with horror, “have you been so base as to make a confident of that fool!”

  “That fool is the child of my bosom,” said Abigail, raising her hands, as if imploring pardon for the indiscretion.—“Ah! madam Lechmere, you who are rich, and great, and happy, and have such a sweet and sensible grandchild, cannot know how to love one like Job; but when the heart is loaded and heavy, it throws its burden on any that will bear it; Job is my child, though he is but little better than an idiot!”

  It was by no trifling exertion of his breeding that Lionel was enabled to profit by the inability of Mrs. Lechmere to reply, and to turn away from the spot, and cease to listen to a conversation that was not intended for his ear. He reached the parlour, and threw himself on one of its settees before he was conscious that he was no longer alone or unobserved.

  “What! Major Lincoln returned from his revels thus early, and armed like a bandit, to his teeth!” exclaimed the playful voice of Cecil Dynevor, who, unheeded, was in possession of the opposite seat, when he entered the room.

  Lionel started, and rubbed his forehead, like a man awaking from a dream.

  “Yes, a bandit, or any other opprobrious name you please; I deserve them all.”

  “Surely,” said Cecil, turning pale, “none other dare use such language of Major Lincoln, and he does it unjustly!”

  “What foolish nonsense have I uttered, Miss Dynevor?” cried Lionel, recovering his recollection; “I was lost in thought, and heard your language without comprehending its meaning.”

  “Still you are armed; a sword is not a usual instrument at your side, and now you bear even pistols!”

  “Yes,” returned the young soldier, laying aside the dangerous implements; “yes, I am about to march as a volunteer, with a party that go into the country to-night, and I take these because I would affect something very warlike, though you well know how peaceably I am disposed.”

  “March into the country—and in the dead of night!” said Cecil, catching her breath, and turning pale—“And does Lionel Lincoln volunteer on such a duty?”

  “I volunteer to perform no other duty than to be a witness of whatever may occur—you are not more ignorant yourself of the nature of the expedition than I am at this moment.”

  “Then remain where you are,” said Cecil, quickly, “enlist not in an enterprise that may be unholy in its purposes, and disgraceful in its results.”

  “Of the former I am innocent, whatever they may be, nor will they be affected by my presence or absence. There is little danger of disgrace in accompanying the grenadiers and light-infantry of this army, Miss Dynevor, though it should be against treble their numbers of chosen troops.”

  “Then it would seem,” said Agnes Danforth, speaking as she entered the room, “that our friend Mercury, that feather of a man, captain Polwarth, is to be one of these night depredators! heaven shield the hen-roosts!”

  “You have heard the intelligence, Agnes?”

  “I have heard that men are arming, and that boats are rowing round the town in all directions, that it is forbidden to enter or quit Boston, as we were wont to do, Cecil, at such hours and in such fashion as suited us plain Americans,” said Agnes, endeavouring to conceal her vexation in affected irony—“God only can tell in what all these oppressive measures will end.”

  “If you go only as a curious spectator of the depredations of the troops,” continued Cecil, “are you not wrong to lend them even the sanction of your name?”

  “I have yet to learn that there will be depredations.”

  “You forget, Cecil,” interrupted Agnes Danforth, “that Major Lincoln did not arrive until after the renowned march from Roxbury to Dorchester! Then the troops gathered their laurels under the face of the sun; but it is easy to conceive how much more glorious their achievements will become when darkness shall conceal their blushes!”

  The blood rushed across the features of Lionel, but he laughed as he arose to depart.

  “You compel me to beat the retreat,” he said. “If I have my usual fortune in this forage, your larder, however, shall be the better for it. I kiss my hand to you, for it would be necessary to lay aside the scarlet to dare to approach with a more peaceable offering. But here I may make an approach to something like amity.”

  He took the hand of Cecil, who frankly met his offer, and insensibly suffered herself to be led to the door of the building while he continued speaking.

  “I would, Lincoln, that you were not to go,” she said, when they stopped on the threshold—“it is not required of you as a soldier; and as a man your own feelings should teach you to be tender of your countrymen.”

  “It is as a man that I go, Cecil,” he answered; “I have motives that you cannot suspect.”

  “And is your absence to be long?”

  “If not for days, my object will be unaccomplished;” but he added, pressing her hand gently, “you cannot doubt my willingness to return when occasion may offer.”

  “Go, then,” said Cecil, hastily, and perhaps unconsciously extricating herself—“go, if you have secret reasons for your conduct; but remember that the acts of every officer of your rank are keenly noted.”

  “Do you distrust me, Cecil!”

  “No—no—I distrust no one, Major Lincoln—go—go—and—and—we shall see you, Lionel, the instant you return.”

  He had not time to reply, for she glided into the building so rapidly as to give the young man an opportunity only to observe, that instead of rejoining her cousin, her light form passed up the great stairs with the swiftness and grace of a fairy.

  Chapter IX

  “Hang out our banners on the outward walls;

  The cry is still, They come.”

  Macbeth.

  * * *

  LIONEL WALKED from the dwelling of Mrs. Lechmere to the foot of Beacon-Hill, and had even toiled up some part of the steep ascent, before he recollected why he was thus wandering by himself at that unusual hour. Hearing, however, no sounds that denoted an immediate movement of the troops, he yielded, unconsciously, to the nature of his sensations, which just at that moment rendered his feelings jealous of communication with others, and continued to ascend until he gained the summit of the eminence. From this elevated stand he paused to contemplate the scene which lay in the obscurity of night at his feet, while his thoughts returned from the flattering anticipations in which he had been indulging, to consider the more pressing business of the hour. There arose from t
he town itself a distant buzzing, like the hum of suppressed agitation, and lights were seen to glide along the streets, or flit across the windows, in a manner which denoted that a knowledge of the expedition had become general within its dwellings. Lionel turned his head toward the common, and listened long and anxiously, but in vain, to detect a single sound that could betray any unusual stir among the soldiery. Towards the interior, the darkness of night had fallen heavily, dimming the amphitheatre of hills that encircled the place, and enshrouding the vales and lowlands between them and the water with an impenetrable veil. There were moments, indeed, when he imagined he overheard some indications among the people of the opposite shore that they were apprised of the impending descent, but on listening more attentively, the utmost of which his ear could assure him, was the faint lowing of cattle from the meadows, or the plash of oars from a line of boats, which, by stretching far along the shores, told both the nature and the extent of the watchfulness that was deemed necessary for the occasion.

  While Lionel stood thus, on the margin of the little platform of earth that had been formed by levelling the apex of the natural cone, musing on the probable results of the measure his superiors had been resolving to undertake, a dim light shed itself along the grass, and glancing upward, danced upon the beacon with strong rays.

  “Scoundrel!” exclaimed a man, springing from his place of concealment, at the foot of the post, and encountering him face to face, “do you dare to fire the beacon?”

  “I would answer by asking how you dare to apply so rude an epithet to me, did I not see the cause of your error,” said Lionel. “The light is from yonder moon, which is just emerging from the ocean.”

  “I see my error,” returned his rough assailant—“by heavens, I would have sworn at first, ’twas the beacon.”