The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Lionel wheeled away quicker than thought, and as his charger took long and desperate leaps down the slight declivity, he heard the shouts of the Americans behind him, the crack of Job’s rifle, and the whizzing of the bullet which the lad sent, as he had promised, in a direction to do him no harm. On gaining a place of comparative safety, he found Pitcairn in the act of abandoning his bleeding horse, the close and bitter attacks of the Provincials rendering it no longer safe for an officer to be seen riding on the flanks of the detachment. Lionel, though he valued his steed highly, had also received so many intimations of the dangerous notice he attracted, that he was soon obliged to follow this example, and he saw, with deep regret, the noble animal scouring across the fields with a loose rein, snorting and snuffing the tainted air. He now joined a party of the combatants on foot, and continued to animate them to new exertions during the remainder of the tedious way.

  From the moment the spires of Boston met the view of the troops, the struggle became intensely interesting. New vigour was imparted to their weary frames by the cheering sight, and assuming once more the air of martial training, they bore up against the assaults of their enemies with renewed spirit. On the other hand, the Americans seemed aware that the moments of vengeance were passing swiftly away, and boys, and grey-headed men, the wounded and the active, crowded around their invaders, eager to obtain a parting blow. Even the peaceful ministers of God were known to take the field on that memorable occasion, and, mingling with their parishioners, to brave every danger in a cause which they believed in consonance with their holy calling. The sun was sinking over the land, and the situation of the detachment had become nearly desperate, when Percy abandoned the idea of reaching the Neck, across which he had proudly marched that morning from Boston, and strained every nerve to get the remainder of his command within the peninsula of Charlestown. The crests and the sides of the heights were alive with men, and as the shades of evening closed about the combatants, the bosoms of the Americans beat high with hope, while they witnessed the faltering steps and slackened fire of the troops. But high discipline, finally so far prevailed as to snatch the English from the very grasp of destruction, and enabled them to gain the narrow entrance to the desired shelter, just as night had come apparently to seal their doom.

  Lionel stood leaning against a fence, as this fine body of men, which a few hours before had thought themselves equal to a march through the colonies,† defiled slowly and heavily by him, dragging their weary and exhausted limbs up the toilsome ascent of Bunker-Hill. The eyes of most of the officers were bent to the earth in shame; and the common herd, even in that place of security, cast anxious glances behind them, to assure themselves that the despised inhabitants of the Province were no longer pressing on their footsteps. Platoon after platoon passed, each man compelled to depend on his own wearied limbs for support, until Lionel at last saw a solitary horseman slowly ascending among the crowd. To his utter amazement and great joy, as this officer approached, he beheld Polwarth, mounted on his own steed, riding towards him, with a face of the utmost complacency and composure. The dress of the captain was torn in many places, and the housings of the saddle were cut into ribands, while here and there a spot of clotted blood, on the sides of the beast, served to announce the particular notice the rider had received from the Americans. The truth was soon extorted from the honest soldier. The love of life had returned with the sight of the abandoned charger. He acknowledged it had cost him his watch to have the beast caught; but once established in the saddle, no danger, nor any remonstrances, could induce him to relinquish a seat which he found so consoling after all the fatigue and motion of that evil day, in which he had been compelled to share in the calamities of those who fought on the side of the crown, in the memorable battle of Lexington.

  * It is matter of history, that the English light brigade was received into the centre of the reinforcements, where the men threw themselves on the ground, as here described. The whole of this account is believed to be true, with the exception of the events connected with the characters of the tale. [1832]

  † It should never be forgotten, that an English officer of rank had declared, in his place in parliament, that 2000 English soldiers could force their way through all the American provinces. [1832]

  Chapter XI

  “Fluel.—Is it not lawful, an’ please your majesty,

  To tell how many is killed.”

  King Henry V.

  * * *

  WHILE A STRONG party of the royal troops took post on the height which commanded the approach to their position, the remainder penetrated deeper into the peninsula, or were transported by the boats of the fleet to the town of Boston.* Lionel and Polwarth passed the strait with the first division of the wounded, the former having no duty to detain him any longer with the detachment, and the latter stoutly maintaining that his corporeal sufferings gave him an undoubted claim to include his case among the casualties of the day. Perhaps no officer in the army of the king felt less chagrin at the result of this inroad than Major Lincoln; for notwithstanding his attachment to his Prince, and adopted country, he was keenly sensitive on the subject of the reputation of his real countrymen; a sentiment that is honourable to our nature, and which never deserts any that do not become disloyal to its purest and noblest impulses. Even while he regretted the price at which his comrades had been taught to appreciate the characters of those whose long and mild forbearance had been misconstrued into pusillanimity, he rejoiced that the eyes of the more aged would now be opened to the truth, and that the mouths of the young and thoughtless were to be for ever closed in shame. Although the actual losses of the two detachments were probably concealed from motives of policy, it was early acknowledged to amount, on the part of the army, to about one-sixth of the whole number employed.

  On the wharf, Lionel and Polwarth separated; the latter agreeing to repair speedily to the private quarters of his friend, where he promised himself a solace for the compulsory abstinence and privations of his long march, and the former taking his way towards Tremont-street, with a view to allay the uneasiness which the secret and flattering whisperings of hope taught him to believe his fair young kinswoman would feel in his behalf. At every corner he encountered groups of townsmen, listening with greedy ears to the particulars of the contest, a few walking away dejected at the spirit exhibited by that country they had villified to its oppressors, but most of them regarding the passing form of one whose disordered dress announced his participation in the affair, with glances of stern satisfaction. As Lionel tapped at the door of Mrs. Lechmere, he forgot his fatigue; and when it opened, and he beheld Cecil standing in the hall, with every lineament of her fine countenance expressing emotion, he no longer remembered those trying dangers he had so lately escaped.

  “Lionel!” exclaimed the young lady, clasping her hands with joy—“himself, and unhurt!” The blood rushed from her heart across her face to her forehead, and burying her shame in her hands, she burst into a flood of tears, and fled his presence.

  Agnes Danforth received him with undisguised pleasure, nor would she indulge in a single question to appease her burning curiosity, until thoroughly assured of his perfect safety. Then, indeed, she remarked, with triumph—

  “Your march has been well attended, Major Lincoln; from the upper windows I have seen some of the honours which the good people of the Massachusetts have paid their visiters.”

  “On my soul, if it were not for the dreadful consequences which must follow, I rejoice as well as yourself, in the events of the day,” said Lincoln; “for a people are never certain of their rights, until they are respected.”

  “Tell me then all, cousin Lincoln, that I may know how to boast of my parentage.”

  The young man gave her a short, but distinct and impartial account of all that had occurred, to which his fair listener attended with undisguised interest.

  “Now, then,” she exclaimed, as he ended, “there is an end f
or ever of those biting taunts that have so long insulted our ears! But you know,” she added, with a slight blush, and a smile most comically arch, “I had a double stake in the fortunes of the day—my country and my true love!”

  “Oh! be at ease; your worshipper has returned, whole in body, and suffering in mind only through your cruelty—he performed the route with wonderful address, and really showed himself a soldier in danger.”

  “Nay, Major Lincoln,” returned Agnes, still blushing, though she laughed, “you do not mean to insinuate that Peter Polwarth has walked forty miles between the rising and setting of the sun.”

  “Between two sun-sets he has done the deed, if you except a trifling promenade à cheval, on my own steed, whom Jonathan compelled me to abandon, and of whom he took, and maintained the possession, too, in spite of dangers of every kind.”

  “Really,” exclaimed the wilful girl, clasping her hands in affected astonishment, though Lionel thought he could read inward satisfaction at his intelligence—“the prodigies of the man exceed belief! one wants the faith of father Abraham to credit such marvels! though, after the repulse of two thousand British soldiers by a body of husbandmen, I am prepared for an exceeding use of my credulity.”

  “The moment is then auspicious for my friend,” whispered Lionel, rising to follow the flitting form of Cecil Dynevor, which he saw gliding into the opposite room, as Polwarth himself entered the apartment—“credulity is said to be the great weakness of your sex, and I must leave you a moment exposed to the failing, and that, too, in the dangerous company of the subject of our discourse.”

  “Now would you give half your hopes of promotion, and all your hopes of a war, captain Polwarth, to know in what manner your character has been treated in your absence,” cried Agnes, blushing, slightly. “I shall not, however, satisfy the cravings of your curiosity, but let it serve as a stimulant to better deeds than have employed you since we met last.”

  “I trust Lincoln has done justice to my service,” returned the good-humoured captain, “and that he has not neglected to mention the manner in which I rescued his steed from the rebels.”

  “The what, sir,” interrupted Agnes, with a frown—“how did you style the good people of Massachusetts-Bay?”

  “I should have said the excited dwellers in the land, I believe. Ah! Miss Agnes, I have suffered this day as man never suffered before, and all on your behalf—”

  “On my behalf! your words require explanation, captain Polwarth.”

  “’Tis impossible,” returned the captain—“there are feelings and actions connected with the heart that will admit of no explanation. All I know is, that I have suffered unutterably on your account, to-day; and what is unutterable is in a great degree inexplicable.”

  “I shall set this down for what I understand occurs regularly in a certain description of tête-à-têtes—the expression of an unutterable thing! Surely, Major Lincoln had some reason to believe he left me at the mercy of my credulity!”

  “You slander your own character, fair Agnes,” said Polwarth, endeavouring to look piteously; “you are neither merciful nor credulous, or you would long since have believed my tale, and taken pity on my misery.”

  “Is not sympathy a sort—a kind—in short, is not sympathy a dreadful symptom in a certain disease?” asked Agnes, resting her eyes on the floor, and affecting girlish embarrassment.

  “Who can gainsay it! ’tis the infallible way for a young lady to discover the bent of her inclinations. Thousands have lived in ignorance of their own affections until their sympathies have been awakened. But what means the question, fair tormentor? May I dare to flatter myself that you at length feel for my pains!”

  “I am sadly afraid ’tis but too true, Polwarth,” returned Agnes, shaking her head, and continuing to look grave.

  Polwarth moved, with something like animation, nigher to the amused girl; and attempted to take her hand, as he said—

  “You restore me to life with this sweet acknowledgment—I have lived for six months like a dog under your frowns, but one kind word acts like a healing balm, and restores me to myself!”

  “Then my sympathy is evaporated!” returned Agnes. “Throughout this long and anxious day have I fancied myself older than my good, staid, great-aunt; and whenever certain thoughts have crossed my mind, I have even imagined a thousand of the ailings of age had encircled me—rheumatisms, gouts, asthmas, and numberless other aches and pains, exceedingly unbecoming to a young lady of nineteen. But you have enlightened me, and given relief to my apprehensions, by explaining it to be no more than sympathy. You see, Polwarth, what a wife you will obtain, should I ever, in a weak moment, accept you, for I have already sustained one-half your burthens!”

  “A man is not made to be in constant motion, like the pendulum of that clock, Miss Danforth, and yet feel no fatigue,” said Polwarth, more vexed than he would permit himself to betray; “yet I flatter myself there is no officer in the light-infantry—you understand me to say the light-infantry—who has passed over more ground within four-and-twenty hours, than the man who hastens, notwithstanding his exploits, to throw himself at your feet, even before he thinks of his ordinary rest.”

  “Captain Polwarth,” said Agnes, rising, “for the compliment, if compliment it be, I thank you; but,” she added, losing her affected gravity in a strong natural feeling that shone in her dark eye, and illuminated the whole of her fine countenance, as she laid her hand impressively on her heart—“the man who will supplant the feelings which nature has impressed here, must not come to my feet, as you call it, from a field of battle, where he has been contending with my kinsmen, and helping to enslave my country. You will excuse me, sir, but as Major Lincoln is at home here, permit me, for a few minutes, to leave you to his hospitality.”

  She withdrew as Lionel re-entered, passing him on the threshold.

  “I would rather be a leader in a stage-coach, or a running footman, than in love!” cried Polwarth—“’tis a dog’s life, Leo, and this girl treats me like a cart-horse! But what an eye she has! I could have lighted my segar by it—my heart is a heap of cinders. Why, Leo, what aileth thee! throughout the whole of this damnable day, I have not before seen thee bear so troubled a look!”

  “Let us withdraw to my private quarters,” muttered the young man, whose aspect and air expressed the marks of extreme disturbance—“’tis time to repair the disasters of our march.”

  “All that has been already looked to,” said Polwarth, rising and limping, with sundry grimaces, in the best manner he was able, in a vain effort to equal the strides of his companion. “My first business on leaving you was to borrow a conveyance of a friend, in which I rode to your place; and my next was to write to little Jimmy Craig, to offer an exchange of my company for his—for from this hour henceforth I denounce all light-infantry movements, and shall take the first opportunity to get back again into the dragoons, as soon as I have effected which, major Lincoln, I propose to treat with you for the purchase of that horse—after that duty was performed, for, if self-preservation be commendable, it became a duty, I made out a bill of fare for Meriton, in order that nothing might be forgotten; after which, like yourself Lionel, I hastened to the feet of my mistress—Ah! Major Lincoln, you are a happy man; for you, there is no reception but smiles—and charms so”—

  “Talk not to me sir, of smiles,” interrupted Lionel, impatiently, “nor of the charms of woman. They are alike capricious and unaccountable.”

  “Bless me!” exclaimed Polwarth, staring about him; “there is then favour for none, in this place, who battle for the King! There is a strange connexion between Cupid and Mars, love and war; for here did I, after fighting all day like a Saracen, a Turk, Jenghis Khan, or, in short, any thing but a Christian, come with full intent to make a serious offer of my hand, commission, and of Polwarth-Hall, to that treasonable vixen, when she repulses me with a frown and a sarcasm as biting as the salu
tation of a hungry man. But what an eye the girl has, and what a bloom, when she is a little more seasoned than common! Then you, too, Lionel, have been treated like a dog!”

  “Like a fool, as I am,” said Lionel, pacing over the ground at a rate that soon threw his companion too far in the rear to admit of further discourse until they reached the place of their destination. Here, to the no small surprise of both gentlemen, they found a company collected that neither was prepared to meet. At a side-table, sat M’Fuse, discussing, with singular relish, some of the cold viands of the previous night’s repast, and washing down his morsels with deep potations of the best wine of his host. In one corner of the room, Seth Sage was posted, with the appearance of a man in duresse, his hands being tied before him, from which depended a long cord that might, on emergency, be made to serve the purpose of a halter. Opposite to the prisoner, for such in truth he was, stood Job, imitating the example of the Captain of Grenadiers, who now and then tossed some fragment of his meal into the hat of the simpleton. Meriton and several of the menials of the establishment were in waiting.

  “What have we here!” cried Lionel, regarding the scene with a curious eye; “of what offence has Mr. Sage been guilty, that he wears these bonds?”

  “Of the small crimes of tr’ason and homicide,” returned M’Fuse, “if shooting at a man, with a hearty mind to kill him, can make a murder.”

  “It can’t,” said Seth, raising his eyes from the floor, where he had hitherto kept them in demure silence; “a man must kill with wicked intent to commit murder”—

  “Hear to the blackguard, datailing the law as if he were my Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench!” interrupted the grenadier; “and what was your own wicked intention, ye skulking vagabond, but to kill me! I’ll have you tried and hung for the same act.”