The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Chapter XIV

  “Thou shalt meet me at Philippi.”

  Julius Caesar.

  * * *

  DURING THIS PERIOD of feverish excitement, while the appearance and privations of war existed with so little of its danger or its action, Lionel had not altogether forgotten his personal feelings, in the powerful interest created by the state of public affairs. Early on the morning succeeding the night of the scene between Mrs. Lechmere and the inmates of the warehouse, he had repaired again to the spot, to relieve the intense anxiety of his mind, by seeking a complete explanation of all those mysteries which had been the principal ligament that bound him to a man, little known, except for his singularities.

  The effects of the preceding day’s battle were already visible in the market-place, where, as Lionel passed, he saw few, or none of the countrymen who usually crowded the square at that hour. In fact, the windows of the shops were opened with caution, and men looked out upon the face of the sun, as if doubting of its appearance and warmth, as in seasons of ordinary quiet; jealousy, and distrust, having completely usurped the place of security within the streets of the town. Notwithstanding the hour, few were in their beds, and those who appeared betrayed by their looks that they had passed the night in watchfulness. Among this number was Abigail Pray, who received her guest in her little tower, surrounded by every thing as he had seen it on the past evening, nothing altered, except her own eye, which at times looked like a gem of price set in her squalid features, but which now appeared haggard and sunken, participating more markedly than common, in the general air of misery that pervaded the woman.

  “I have intruded at a somewhat unusual hour, Mrs. Pray,” said Lionel, as he entered; “but business of the last moment requires that I should see your lodger—I suppose he is above; it will be well to announce my visit.”

  Abigail shook her head with an air of solemn meaning, as she answered in a subdued voice, “he is gone!”

  “Gone!” exclaimed Lionel—“whither, and when?”

  “The people seem visited by the wrath of God, sir,” returned the woman—“old and young, the sick and well, are crazy about the shedding of blood; and it’s beyond the might of man to say where the torrent will be stayed!”

  “But what has this to do with Ralph! where is he? Woman, you are not playing me false!”

  “I! heaven forbid that I should ever be false again! and to you least of all God’s creatures! No, Major Lincoln; the wonderful man, who seems to have lived so long that he can even read our secret thoughts, as I had supposed man could never read them, has left me, and I know not whether he will ever return.”

  “Ever! you have not driven him by violence from your miserable roof?”

  “My roof is like that of the fowls of the air—’tis the roof of any who are so unfortunate as to need it.—There is no spot on earth, Major Lincoln, that I can call mine—but one day there will be one—yes—there will be a narrow house provided for us all; and God grant that mine may be as quiet as the coffin is said to be! I lie not, Major Lincoln—no, this time I am innocent of deceit—Ralph and Job have gone together, but whither, I know not, unless it be to join the people without the town—they left me as the moon rose, and he gave me a parting and a warning voice, that will ring in my ears until they are deafened by the damps of the grave!”

  “Gone to join the Americans, and with Job!” returned Lionel, musing, and without attending to the closing words of Abigail.—“Your boy will purchase peril with this madness, Mrs. Pray, and should be looked to.”

  “Job is not one of God’s accountables, nor is he to be treated like other children,” returned the woman. “Ah! Major Lincoln, a healthier, and a stouter, and a finer boy was not to be seen in the Bay-Province, till the child had reached his fifth year! then, the judgment of heaven fell on mother and son—sickness made him what you see, a being with the form, but without the reason of man, and I have grown the wretch I am. But it has all been foretold, and warnings enough have I had of it all! for is it not said, that he “will visit the sins of the fathers upon the children until the third and fourth generation!” Thank God, my sorrows and sins will end with Job, for there never can be a third to suffer!”

  “If,” said Lionel, “there be any sin which lies heavy at your heart, every consideration, whether of justice or repentance, should induce you to confess your errors to those whose happiness may be affected by the knowledge, if any such there be?”

  The anxious eye of the woman raised itself to meet the look of the young man; but quailing before the piercing gaze it encountered, she quickly turned it upon the litter and confusion of her disordered apartment. Lionel waited some time for a reply, but finding that she remained obstinately silent, he continued—

  “From what has already passed, you must be conscious that I have good reason to believe that my feelings are deeply concerned in your secret; make, then, your confession of the guilt which seems to bear you down so heavily; and in return for the confidence, I promise you forgiveness and protection.”

  As Lionel pressed thus directly the point so near his heart, the woman shrunk away from her situation near him, and her countenance lost, as he proceeded, its remarkable expression of compunction, in a forced look of surprise, that showed she was no novice in dissimulation, whatever might be the occasional warnings of her conscience.

  “Guilt!” she repeated, in a slow and tremulous voice; “we are all guilty, and would be lost creatures, but for the blood of the Mediator.”

  “Most true; but you have spoken of crimes that infringe the laws of man, as well as those of God.”

  “I! Major Lincoln—I, a disorderly law-breaker!” exclaimed Abigail, affecting to busy herself in arranging her apartment—“it is not such as I, that have leisure or courage to break the laws! Major Lincoln is trying a poor lone woman, to make his jokes with the gentlemen of his mess this evening—’tis certain, we all of us have our burthens of guilt to answer for—surely Major Lincoln couldn’t have heard minister Hunt preach his sermon, the last Sabbath, on the sins of the town!”

  Lionel coloured highly at the artful imputation of the woman, that he was practising on her sex and unprotected situation; and greatly provoked, in secret, at her duplicity, he became more guarded in his language, endeavouring to lead her on, by kindness and soothing, to the desired communications. But his ingenuity was met by more than equal abilities on the part of Abigail, from whom he only obtained expressions of surprise that he could have mistaken her language for more than the usual acknowledgment of errors, that are admitted to be common to our lost nature. In this particular the woman was in no respect singular; the greater number of those who are loudest in their confessions and denunciations on the abandoned nature of our hearts, commonly resenting, in the deepest manner, the imputation of particular offences. The more earnest and pressing his inquiries became, the more wary she grew, until disgusted with her pertinacity, and secretly suspecting her of foul play with her lodger, he left the house in anger, determining to keep a close eye on her movements, and, at a suitable moment, to strike such a blow as should bring her not only to confession, but to shame.

  Under the influence of this momentary resentment, and unable to avoid entertaining the most unpleasant suspicions of his aunt, the young man determined, that very morning, to withdraw himself entirely, as a guest, from her dwelling. Mrs. Lechmere, who, if she knew at all that Lionel had been a witness of her intercourse with Ralph, must have obtained the intelligence from Abigail, received him, at breakfast, with a manner that betrayed no such consciousness. She listened to his excuses for removing, with evident concern; and more than once, as Lionel spoke of the probable nature of his future life, now that hostilities had commenced—the additional trouble his presence would occasion to her habits and years—of his great concern in her behalf—and, in short, of all that he could devise in the way of apology for the step, he saw her eyes turned anxiously on Cec
il, with an expression which, at another time, might have led him to distrust the motives of her hospitality. The young lady herself, however, evidently heard the proposal with satisfaction, and when her grandmother appealed to her opinion, whether he had urged a single good reason for the measure, she answered with a vivacity that had been a stranger to her manner of late—

  “Certainly, my dear grandmama—the best of all reasons—his inclinations. Major Lincoln tires of us, and of our hum-drum habits, and, in my eyes, true politeness requires that we should suffer him to leave us for his barracks, without a word of remonstrance.”

  “My motive must be greatly mistaken, if a desire to leave you—”

  “Oh! sir, the explanation is not required. You have urged so many reasons, cousin Lionel, that the true and moving motive is yet kept behind the curtain. It must, and can be no other than ennui.”

  “Then I will remain,” said Lionel; “for any thing is better than to be suspected of insensibility.”

  Cecil looked both gratified and disappointed—she played with her spoon a moment in embarrassment, bit her beautiful lip with vexation, and then said, in a more friendly tone—

  “I must exonerate you from the imputation—go to your own quarters, if it be agreeable, and we will believe your incomprehensible reasons for the change—besides, as a kinsman, we shall see you every day, without doubt.”

  Lionel had now no longer any excuse for not abiding by his avowed determination; and notwithstanding Mrs. Lechmere parted from her interesting nephew with an exhibition of reluctance that was in singular contrast with her usually cold and formal manner, the desired removal was made in the course of that morning.

  When this change was accomplished, week after week slipped by, in the manner related in the preceding chapter, during which the reinforcements continued to arrive, and general after general appeared in the place to support the unenterprizing Gage in the conduct of the war. The timid amongst the colonists were appalled as they heard the long list of proud and boasted names recounted. There was Howe, a man sprung from a noble race, long known for their deeds in arms, and whose chief had already shed his blood on the soil of America. Clinton, another cadet of an illustrious house, better known for his personal intrepidity and domestic kindness, than for the rough qualities of the warrior. And the elegant and accomplished Burgoyne, who had already purchased a name in the fields of Portugal and Germany, which he was destined soon to lose in the wilds of America. In addition to these might be mentioned Pigot, Grant, Robertson, and the heir of Northumberland, each of whom led a brigade in the cause of his prince; besides a host of men of lesser note, who had passed their youth in arms, and were now about to bring their experience to the field, in opposition to the untrained husbandmen of New-England. As if this list were not sufficient to overwhelm their inexperienced adversaries, the pride of arms had gathered many of the young among the noble and chivalric in the British empire, to the point on which all eyes were turned, amongst whom the one who afterwards added the fairest wreath to the laurels of his ancestors, was the joint heir of Hastings and Moira, the gallant but, as yet, untried boy of Rawdon. Amongst such companions, many of whom had been his associates in England, the hours of Lionel passed swiftly by, leaving him but little leisure to meditate on those causes which had brought him also to the scene of contention.

  One warm evening, towards the middle of June, Lionel became a witness of the following scene, through the open doors which communicated between his private apartment and the room which Polwarth had dedicated to what he called “the knowing mess.” M’Fuse was seated at a table, with a ludicrous air of magisterial authority, while Polwarth held a station at his side, which appeared to partake of the double duties of a judge and a scribe. Before this formidable tribunal Seth Sage was arraigned, as it would seem, to answer for certain offences alleged to have been committed in the field of battle. Ignorant that his landlord had not received the benefit of the late exchange, and curious to know what all the suppressed roguery he could detect in the demure countenances of his friends might signify, Lionel dropped his pen, and listened to the succeeding dialogue.

  “Now answer to your offences, thou silly fellow, with a wise name,” M’Fuse commenced, in a voice that did not fail, by its harsh cadences, to create some of that awe, which, by the expression of the speaker’s eye, it would seem he laboured to produce—“speak out with the freedom of a man, and the compunctions of a Christian, if you have them. Why should I not send you at once to Ireland, that ye may get your deserts on three pieces of timber, the one being laid cross-wise for the sake of convenience. If you have a contrary reason, bestow it without delay, for the love you bear your own angular daiformities.”

  The wags did not altogether fail in their object, Seth betraying a good deal more uneasiness than it was usual for the man to exhibit even in situations of peril. After clearing his throat, and looking about him, to gather from the eyes of the spectators which way their sympathies inclined, he answered with a very commendable fortitude—

  “Because it’s ag’in law.”

  “Have done with your interminable perplexities of the law,” cried M’Fuse, “and do not bother honest gentlemen with its knavery, as if they were no more than so many proctors in big wigs! ’tis the gospel you should be thinking of, you godless reprobate, on account of that final end you will yet make, one day, in a most indecent hurry.”

  “To your purpose, Mac,” interrupted Polwarth, who perceived that the erratic feelings of his friend were beginning already to lead him from the desired point; “or I will propound the matter myself, in a style that would do credit to a mandamus counsellor.”

  “The mandamuses are all ag’in the charter, and the law too,” continued Seth, whose courage increased as the dialogue bore more directly upon his political principles—“and to my mind it’s quite convincing that if ministers calculate largely on upholding them, there will be great disturbances, if not a proper fight in the land; for the whole country is in a blaze!”

  “Disturbances, thou immoveable iniquity! thou quiet assassin!” roared M’Fuse; “do ye not call a fight of a day a disturbance, or do ye tar’m skulking behind fences, and laying the muzzle of a musket on the head of Job Pray, and the breech on a mullen-stalk, while ye draw upon a fellow-creature, a commendable method of fighting! Now answer me to the truth, and disdain lying, as ye would ’ating any thing but cod on a Saturday, who were the two men that fired into my very countenance, from the unfortunate situation among the mullens that I have datailed to you?”

  “Pardon me, captain M’Fuse,” said Polwarth, “if I say that zeal and indignation run ahead of discretion. If we alarm the prisoner in this manner, we may defeat the ends of justice. Besides, sir, there is a reflection contained in your language, to which I must dissent. A real dumb is not to be despised, especially when served up in a wrapper, and between two coarser fish to preserve the steam—I have had my private meditations on the subject of getting up a Saturday’s club, in order to enjoy the bounty of the Bay, and for improving the cookery of the cod!”

  “And let me tell you, captain Polwarth,” returned the grenadier, cocking his eye at the other, “that your epicurean propensities lead you to the verge of cannibalism; for sure it may be called that, when you speak of ’ating while the life of a fellow cr’ature is under a discussion for its termination—”

  “I conclude,” interrupted Seth, who was greatly averse to all quarreling, and who thought he saw the symptoms of a breach between his judges, “the captain wishes to know who the two men were that fired on him a short time before he got the hit in the shoulder?”

  “A short time, ye marvellous hypocrite!—’twas as quick as flint and powder could make it.”

  “Perhaps there might be some mistake, for a great many of the troops were much disguised—”

  “Do ye insinuate that I got drunk before the enemies of my king!” roared the grenadier—“Hark ye, Miste
r Sage, I ask you in a genteel way, who the two men were that fired on me, in the manner datailed, and remember that a man may tire of putting questions which are never answered?”

  “Why,” returned Seth, who, however expert at prevarication, eschewed with religious horror, a direct lie—“I pretty much conclude that they—the captain is sure the place he means was just beyond Menotomy?”

  “As sure as men can be,” said Polwarth, “who possess the use of their eyes.”

  “Then captain Polwarth can give testimony to the fact?”

  “I believe Major Lincoln’s horse carries a small bit of your lead to this moment, Master Sage.”

  Seth yielded to this accumulation of evidence against him, and knowing, moreover, that the grenadier had literally made him a prisoner in the fact of renewing his fire, he sagaciously determined to make a merit of necessity, and candidly to acknowledge his agency in inflicting the wounds. The utmost, however, that his cautious habits would permit him to say, was—

  “Seeing there can’t well be any mistake, I seem to think, the two men were chiefly Job and I.”

  “Chaifly, you lath of uncertainty!” exclaimed M’Fuse; “if there was any chaif in that cowardly assassination of wounding a Christian, and of hurting a horse, which, though nothing but a dumb baste, has better blood than runs in your own beggarly veins, ’twas your own ugly proportions. But I rejoice that you have come to the confessional!—I can now see you hung with felicity—if you have any thing to say, urge it at once, why I should not embark you for Ireland by the first vessel, in a letter to my Lord-Lieutenant, with a request that he’ll give you an early procession, and a dacent funeral.”