The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “It’s ag’in reason to believe that any jury will convict one man for the murder of another that a’nt dead,” said Seth—“there’s no jury to be found in the Bay-colony, to do it.”

  “Bay-colony! ye murdering thief and rebel!” cried the Captain; “I’ll have ye transported to England; ye shall be both transported and hung. By the Lord, I’ll carry ye back to Ireland with me, and I’ll hang ye up in the green Island itself, and bury ye, in the heart of winter, in a bog”—

  “But what is the offence,” demanded Lionel, “that calls forth these threats?”

  “The scoundrel has been out”—

  “Out!”

  “Ay, out—damn it, sir, has not the whole country been like so many bees in search of a hive! Is your memory so short that ye forget, already, Major Lincoln, the tramp the blackguards have given you over hill and dale, through thick and thin?”

  “And was Mr. Sage found among our enemies to-day?”—

  “Didn’t I see him pull trigger on my own stature, three times within as many minutes!” returned the angry captain; “and didn’t he break the handle of my sword? and have not I a bit of lead he calls a buckshot in my shoulder as a present from the thief?”

  “It’s ag’in all law to call a man a thief,” said Job, “unless you can prove it upon him; but it an’t ag’in law to go in and out of Boston as often as you choose.”

  “Do you hear the rascals! They know every angle of the law as well, or better than I do myself, who am the son of a Cork counsellor. I dare to say, you were among them too, and that ye deserve the gallows as well as your commendable companion, there.”

  “How is this!” said Lionel, turning quickly away from Job, with a view to prevent a reply that might endanger the safety of the fool; “did you not only mingle in this rebellion, Mr. Sage, but also attempt the life of a gentleman who may be said, almost, to be an inmate of your own house?”

  “I conclude,” returned Seth, “it’s best not to talk too much, seeing that no one can foretell what may happen.”

  “Hear to the cunning reprobate! he has not the grace to acknowledge his own sins, like an honest man,” interrupted M’Fuse; “but I can save him that small trouble—I got tired, you must know, Major Lincoln, of being shot at like noxious vermin, from morning till night, without making some return to the compliments of those gentlemen who are out on the hills; and I took advantage of a turn, ye see, to double on a party of the uncivilized demons; this lad, here, got three good pulls at me, before we closed and made an end of them with the steel, all but this fellow, who having a becoming look for a gallows, I brought him in, as you see, for an exchange, intending to hang him the first favourable opportunity.”

  “If this be true we must give him into the hands of the proper authorities,” said Lionel, smiling at the confused account of the angry captain—“for it remains to be seen yet what course will be adopted with the prisoners in this singular contest.”

  “I should think nothing of the matter,” returned M’Fuse, “if the reprobate had not tr’ated me like a beast of the field, with his buckshot, and taking his aim each time, as if I had been a mad-dog. Ye villain, do you call yourself a man, and aim at a fellow-creature as you would at a brute?”

  “Why,” said Seth, sullenly, “when a man has pretty much made up his mind to fight, I conclude it’s best to take aim, in order to save ammunition and time.”

  “You acknowledge the charge, then!” demanded Lionel.

  “As the major is a moderate man, and will hear to reason, I will talk the matter over with him rationally,” said Seth, disposing himself to speak more to the purpose. “You see I had a small call to Concurd early this morning”—

  “Concord!” exclaimed Lionel—

  “Yes, Concurd,” returned Seth, laying great stress on the first syllable, and speaking with an air of extreme innocence—“it lies here-away, say twenty or one-and-twenty miles”—

  “Damn your Concords and your miles too,” cried Polwarth; “is there a man in the army who can forget the deceitful place! Go on with your defence, without talking to us of the distance, who have measured the road by inches.”

  “The captain is hasty and rash!” said the deliberate prisoner—“but being there, I went out of the town with some company that I happened in with; and after a time we concluded to return—and so, as we came to a bridge about a mile beyond the place, we received considerable rough treatment from some of the king’s troops, who were standing there—”

  “What did they?”

  “They fired at us, and killed two of our company, besides other threatening doings. There were some among us that took the matter up in considerable earnest, and there was a sharp toss about it for a few minutes; though finally the law prevailed.”

  “The law!”

  “Certain—’tis ag’in all law, I believe the major will own, to shoot peaceable men on the public highway!”

  “Proceed with your tale in your own way.”

  “That is pretty much the whole of it,” said Seth, warily. “The people rather took that, and some other things that happened at Lexington, to heart, and I suppose the major knows the rest.”

  “But what has all this to do with your attempt to murder me, you hypocrite?” demanded M’Fuse—“confess the whole, ye thief, that I may hang you with an aisy conscience.”

  “Enough,” said Lionel; “the man has acknowledged sufficient already to justify us in transferring him to the custody of others—let him be taken to the main guard, and delivered as a prisoner of this day.”

  “I hope the major will look to the things,” said Seth, who instantly prepared to depart, but stopped on the threshold to speak—“I shall hold him accountable for all.”

  “Your property shall be protected, and I hope your life may not be in jeopardy,” returned Lionel, waving his hand for those who guarded him to proceed. Seth turned, and left his own dwelling with the same quiet air which had distinguished him throughout the day; though there were occasional flashes from his quick, dark eyes, that looked like the glimmerings of a fading fire. Notwithstanding the threatening denunciation he had encountered, he left the house with a perfect conviction, that if his case were to be tried by those principles of justice which every man in the Colony so well understood, it would be found that both he and his fellows had kept thoroughly on the windy side of the law.

  During this singular and characteristic discourse, Polwarth, with the solitary exception we have recorded, had employed his time in forwarding the preparations for the banquet.

  As Seth and his train disappeared, Lionel cast a furtive look at Job, who was a quiet and apparently an undisturbed spectator of the scene, and then turned his attention suddenly to his guests, as if fearful the folly of the youth might betray his agency also in the deeds of the day. The simplicity of the lad, however, defeated the kind intentions of the major, for he immediately observed, without the least indication of fear—

  “The king can’t hang Seth Sage for firing back, when the rake-helly soldiers began first.”

  “Perhaps you were out too, master Solomon,” cried M’Fuse, “amusing yourself at Concord, with a small party of select friends!”

  “Job didn’t go any further than Lexington, and he hasn’t got any friend, except old Nab.”

  “The devil has possessed the minds of the people!” continued the grenadier—“lawyers and doctors—praists and sinners—old and young—big and little, beset us in our march, and here is a fool to be added to the number! I daresay that fellow, now, has attempted murder in his day too.”

  “Job scorns such wickedness; he only shot one granny, and hit an officer in the arm.”

  “D’ye hear that, Major Lincoln!” cried M’Fuse, jumping from the seat, which, notwithstanding the bitterness of his language, he had hitherto perseveringly maintained; “d’ye hear that shell of a man, that effigy, boasting of h
aving killed a grenadier!”

  “Hold”—interrupted Lionel, arresting his excited companion by the arm—“remember, we are soldiers, and that the boy is not a responsible being. No tribunal would ever sentence so unfortunate a creature to a gibbet; and in general he is as harmless as a babe—”

  “The devil burn such babes—a pretty fellow is he to kill a man of six feet! and with a ducking gun I’ll engage. I’ll not hang the rascal, Major Lincoln, since it is your particular wish—I’ll only have him buried alive.”

  Job continued perfectly unmoved, and the captain, ashamed of his resentment against so unconscious imbecility, was soon persuaded to abandon his intentions of revenge, though he continued muttering his threats against the provincials, and his denunciations against so “unmanly a spacies of warfare,” until the much-needed repast was ended.

  Polwarth having restored the equilibrium of his system by a hearty meal, hobbled to his bed, and M’Fuse, without any ceremony, took possession of another of the apartments in the tenement of Mr. Sage. The servants withdrew to their own entertainment, and Lionel, who had been sitting for the last half hour in melancholy silence, now unexpectedly found himself alone with the idiot. Job had waited for this moment with exceeding patience, but when the door closed on Meriton, who was the last to retire, he made a movement that indicated some communication of importance, and succeeded in attracting the attention of his companion.

  “Foolish boy!” exclaimed Lionel, as he met the unmeaning eye of the other, “did I not warn you that wicked men might endanger your life! how was it that I saw you in arms to-day, against the troops?”

  “How came the troops in arms ag’in Job? They needn’t think to wheel about the Bay-Province, clashing their godless drums and trumpets, burning housen, and shooting people, and find no stir about it!”

  “Do you know that your life has been twice forfeited within twelve hours, by your own confession; once for murder, and again for treason against your king? You have acknowledged killing a man!”

  “Yes,” said the lad, with undisturbed simplicity, “Job shot the granny; but he didn’t let the people kill Major Lincoln.”

  “True, true,” said Lionel, hastily—“I owe my life to you; that debt shall be cancelled at every hazard. But why have you put yourself into the hands of your enemies so thoughtlessly—what brings you here to-night?”

  “Ralph told me to come; and if Ralph told Job to go into the king’s parlour, he would go.”

  “Ralph!” exclaimed Lionel, stopping in his hurried walk across the room, “where is he?”

  “In the old ware-’us’, and he has sent me to tell you to come to him—and what Ralph says must be done.”

  “He here too! is the man crazed—would not his fears teach him—”

  “Fears!” interrupted Job, with childish disdain—“you can’t frighten Ralph! The grannies couldn’t frighten him, nor the light-infantry couldn’t hit him, though he eat nothing but their smoke the whole day—Ralph’s a proper warrior!”

  “And he waits me, you say, in the tenement of your mother?”

  “Job don’t know what tenement means, but he’s in the old ware-’us’.”

  “Come, then,” said Lionel, taking his hat, “let us go to him—I must save him from the effects of his own rashness, though it cost my commission!”

  He left the room while speaking, and the simpleton followed close at his heels, well content with having executed his mission without encountering any greater difficulties.

  * The peninsula of Charlestown is nearly surrounded by deep water, and is connected with the adjoining land by a neck of only a few rods in width. Bunker Hill stands like a rampart immediately before the passage. [1832]

  Chapter XII

  “This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna:

  Gonzago is the Duke’s name; his wife, Baptista:

  You shall see, anon; ’tis a knavish piece of work.”

  Hamlet.

  * * *

  THE AGITATION and deep excitement produced by the events of the day, had not yet subsided in the town, when Lionel found himself again in its narrow streets. Men passed swiftly by him, as if bent on some unusual and earnest business; and more than once the young soldier detected the triumphant smiles of the women, as they looked curiously out on the scene, from the half-open windows, and their eyes detected the professional trappings of his dress. Strong bodies of troops were marching in different directions, in a manner which denoted that the guards were strengthening, while the few solitary officers he met watched his approaching figure with cautious jealousy, as if they apprehended a dangerous enemy in every form they encountered.

  The gates of Province-house were open, and, as usual, guarded by armed men. As Lionel passed leisurely along, he perceived that the grenadier to whom he had spoken on the preceding evening, again held his watch before the portal of the governor.

  “Your experience did not deceive you, old comrade,” said Lionel, lingering a moment to address him—“we have had a warm day.”

  “So it is reported in the barracks, your honour,” returned the soldier—“our company was not ordered out, and we are to stand double duty. I hope to God the next time there is any thing to do, the grenadiers of the ——th may not be left behind—it would have been for the credit of the army had they been in the field to-day.”

  “Why do you think so, my veteran? The men who were out are thought to have behaved well; but it was impossible to make head against a multitude in arms.”

  “It is not my place, your honour, to say this man did well, and that man behaved amiss,” returned the old soldier; “but when I hear of two thousand British troops turning their backs, or quickening their march before all the rabble this country can muster, I want the flank companies of the ——th to be at hand, if it should be only that I may say I have witnessed the disgraceful sight with my own eyes.”

  “There is no disgrace where there is no misconduct.”

  “There must have been misconduct somewhere, your honour, or such a thing could not have happened—consider, your honour, the very flower of the army! Something must have been wrong, and although I could see the latter part of the business from the hills, I can hardly believe it to be true.” As he concluded, he shook his head, and continued his steady pace along his allotted ground, as if unwilling to pursue the humiliating subject any further. Lionel passed slowly on, musing on that deep-rooted prejudice, which had even taught this humble menial of the crown to regard with contempt a whole nation, because they were believed to be dependants.

  The dock-square was stiller than usual, and the sounds of revelry, which it was usual to hear at that hour from the adjacent drinking-houses, were no longer audible. The moon had not yet risen, and Lionel passed under the dark arches of the market with a quick step, as he now remembered that one in whom he felt so deep an interest awaited his appearance. Job, who had followed in silence, glided by him on the drawbridge, and stood holding the door of the old building in his hand, when he reached its threshold. Lionel found the large space in the centre of the warehouse, as usual, dark and empty, though the dim light of a candle glimmered through the fissures in a partition which separated an apartment in one of the little towers that was occupied by Abigail Pray, from the ruder parts of the edifice. Low voices were also heard issuing from this room, and Major Lincoln, supposing he should find the old man and the mother of Job in conference together, turned to request the lad would precede him, and announce his name. But the youth had also detected the whispering sounds, and it would seem with a more cunning ear, for he turned and darted through the door of the building with a velocity that did not abate until Lionel, who watched his movements with amazement, saw his shuffling figure disappear among the shambles of the market-place. Thus deserted by his guide, Lionel groped his way towards the place where he believed he should find the door which led into the tower. The light deceived
him, for as he approached it, his eye glanced through one of the crevices of the wall, and he again became an unintentional witness of another of those interviews which evinced the singular and mysterious affinity between the fortunes of the affluent and respected Mrs. Lechmere and the miserable tenant of the warehouse. Until that moment, the hurry of events, and the crowd of reflections which had rushed over the mind of the young man throughout the busy time of the last twenty-four hours, had prevented his recalling the hidden meaning of the singular discourse of which he had already been an auditor. But now, when he found his aunt led into these haunts of beggary, by a feeling he was not weak enough to attribute to her charity, he stood rooted to the spot by a curiosity, which, at the same time that he found it irresistible, he was willing to excuse, under a strong impression that these private communications were in some way connected with himself.

  Mrs. Lechmere had evidently muffled her person in a manner that was intended to conceal this mysterious visit from any casual observer of her movements; but the hoops of her large calash were so far raised as to admit a distinct view of her features, and of the hard eye which shot forth its selfish, worldly glances, from amid the surrounding decay of nature. She was seated, both in indulgence to her infirmities, and from that assumption of superiority she never neglected in the presence of her inferiors, while her companion stood before her, in an attitude that partook more of restraint than of respect.

  “Your weakness, foolish woman,” said Mrs. Lechmere, in those repulsive tones she so well knew how to use when she wished to intimidate, “will yet prove your ruin. You owe it to respect for yourself, to your character, and even to your safety, that you should exhibit more firmness, and show yourself above this weak and idle superstition.”