The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “John,” whispered the surgeon, with awakened curiosity, “what means this festival?”

  “That your wig and my black head would look the better for a little of Betty Flanagan’s flour; but it is too late now, and we must fight the battle armed as you see.”

  “Observe, here comes the army chaplain in his full robes as a Doctor Divinitatis—what can it mean?”

  “An exchange,” said the trooper; “the wounded of Cupid are to meet and settle their accounts with the god, in the way of plighting faith to suffer from his archery no more.”

  The surgeon laid a finger on the side of his nose, and he began to comprehend the case.

  “Is it not a crying shame, that a sunshine-hero, and an enemy, should thus be suffered to steal away one of the fairest plants that grows in our soil,” muttered Lawton; “a flower fit to be placed in the bosom of any man.”

  “If he be not more accommodating as a husband, than as a patient, John, I fear me that the lady will lead a troubled life.”

  “Let her,” said the trooper indignantly; “she has chosen from her country’s enemies, and may she meet with a foreigner’s virtues in her choice.”

  Further conversation was interrupted by Miss Peyton, who, advancing, acquainted them that they had been invited to grace the nuptials of her eldest niece and Col. Wellmere. The gentlemen bowed, and the good aunt, with an inherent love of propriety, went on to add, that the acquaintance was of an old date, and the attachment by no means a sudden thing. To this Lawton merely bowed still more ceremoniously; but the surgeon, who loved to hold converse with the virgin, replied—

  “That the human mind was differently constituted in different individuals. In some, impressions are vivid and transitory; in others, more deep and lasting:—indeed, there are some philosophers who pretend to trace a connexion between the physical and mental powers of the animal; but for my part, madam, I believe that the one is much influenced by habit and association, and the other subject altogether to the peculiar laws of matter.”

  Miss Peyton, in her turn, bowed her silent assent to this remark, and retired with dignity, to usher the intended bride into the presence of the company. The hour had arrived when American custom has decreed, that the vows of wedlock must be exchanged; and Sarah, blushing with a variety of emotions, followed her aunt to the drawing room. Wellmere sprang to receive the hand that, with an averted face, she extended towards him and, for the first time, the English colonel appeared fully conscious of the important part that he was to act in the approaching ceremony. Hitherto his air had been abstracted, and his manner uneasy; but every thing excepting the certainty of his bliss, seemed to vanish at the blaze of loveliness that now burst on his sight. All arose from their seats, and the reverend gentleman had already opened the sacred volume, when the absence of Frances was noticed: Miss Peyton withdrew in search of her youngest niece, whom she found in her own apartment, and in tears.

  “Come, my love, the ceremony waits but for us,” said the aunt, affectionately entwining her arm in that of her niece; “endeavour to compose yourself, that proper honour may be done to the choice of your sister.”

  “Is he—can he be worthy of her?”

  “Can he be otherwise?” returned Miss Peyton; “is he not a gentleman?—a gallant soldier, though an unfortunate one? and certainly, my love, one who appears every way qualified to make any woman happy.”

  Frances had given vent to her feelings, and, with an effort, she collected sufficient resolution to venture to join the party below. But to relieve the embarrassment of this delay, the clergyman had put sundry questions to the bridegroom; one of which was by no means answered to his satisfaction. Wellmere was compelled to acknowledge that he was unprovided with a ring, and to perform the marriage ceremony without one, the divine pronounced to be canonically impossible. His appeal to Mr. Wharton, for the propriety of this decision, was answered affirmatively, as it would have been negatively, had the question been put in a manner to lead to such a result. The owner of the “Locusts” had lost the little energy he possessed, by the blow recently received through his son, and his assent to the objection of the clergyman, was as easily obtained, as had been his consent to the premature proposals of Wellmere. In this stage of the dilemma, Miss Peyton and Frances appeared. The surgeon of dragoons approached the former, and as he handed her to a chair, observed—

  “It appears, Madam, that untoward circumstances have prevented Colonel Wellmere from providing all of the decorations that custom, antiquity, and the canons of the church, have prescribed as indispensable to enter into the honourable state of wedlock.”

  Miss Peyton glanced her quiet eye at the uneasy bridegroom, and perceiving him to be adorned with what she thought sufficient splendour, allowing for the time and the suddenness of the occasion, she turned her look on the speaker as if to demand an explanation.

  The surgeon understood her wishes, and proceeded at once to gratify them.

  “There is,” he observed, “an opinion prevalent, that the heart lies on the left side of the body, and that the connexion between the members of that side and what may be called the seat of life, is more intimate than that which exists with their opposites. But this is an error that grows out of an ignorance of the organic arrangement of the human frame. In obedience to this opinion, the fourth finger of the left hand is thought to contain a virtue that belongs to no other branch of that digitated member,—and it is ordinarily encircled, during the solemnization of wedlock, with a cincture or ring, as if to chain that affection to the marriage state, which is best secured by the graces of the female character.” While speaking, the op­e­r­ator laid his hand impressively on his heart, and he bowed nearly to the floor when he had concluded.

  “I know not, sir, that I rightly understand your meaning,” said Miss Peyton, whose want of comprehension was sufficiently excusable.

  “A ring, Madam—a ring is wanting for the ceremony.”

  The instant that the surgeon spoke explicitly, the awkwardness of the situation was understood. She glanced her eyes at her nieces, and in the younger she read a secret exultation that somewhat displeased her; but the countenance of Sarah was suffused with a shame that the considerate aunt well understood. Not for the world would she violate any of the observances of female etiquette. It suggested itself to all the females, at the same moment, that the wedding ring of the late mother and sister was reposing peacefully amid the rest of her jewellery, in a secret receptacle, that had been provided at an early day, to secure the valuables against the predatory inroads of the marauders who roamed through the county. Into this hidden vault, the plate and whatever was most prized made a nightly retreat, and there the ring in question had long lain, forgotten until at this moment. But it was the business of the bridegroom, from time immemorial, to furnish this indispensable to wedlock, and on no account would Miss Peyton do any thing that transcended the usual reserve of the sex on this solemn occasion; certainly not until sufficient expiation for the offence had been made by a due portion of trouble and disquiet. This material fact, therefore, was not disclosed by either; the aunt consulting female propriety, the bride yielding to shame, and Frances rejoicing that an embarrassment proceeding from almost any cause should delay her sister’s vows. It was reserved for Dr. Sitgreaves to interrupt the awkward silence.

  “If, Madam, a plain ring that once belonged to a sister of my own”—he paused, and hem’d—“if, Madam, a ring of that description might be admitted to this honour, I have one that could be easily produced from my quarters at the “Corners,” and I doubt not it would fit the finger for which it is desired. There is a strong resemblance between—hem—between my late sister and Miss Wharton in stature and anatomical figure, and in all eligible subjects the proportions are apt to be observed throughout the whole animal economy.”

  A glance of Miss Peyton’s eye recalled Colonel Wellmere to a sense of his duty, and springing from a chair, he assured
the surgeon, that in no way could he confer a greater obligation on himself than by sending for that very ring. The operator bowed a little haughtily, and withdrew to fulfil his promise, by despatching a messenger on the errand. The aunt suffered him to retire; but unwillingness to admit a stranger into the privacy of their domestic arrangements, induced her to follow and tender the services of Caesar instead of those of Sitgreaves’ man, who had volunteered for this duty. Katy Haynes was accordingly directed to summon the black to the vacant parlour and thither Miss Peyton and the surgeon repaired, to give their several instructions.

  The consent to this sudden union of Sarah and Wellmere, and especially at a time when the life of a member of the family was in such imminent jeopardy, was given from a conviction, that the unsettled state of the country, would probably prevent another opportunity of the lovers meeting, and a secret dread on the part of Mr. Wharton, that the death of his son, might, by hastening his own, leave his remaining children without a protector. But notwithstanding Miss Peyton had complied with her brother’s wish to profit by the accidental visit of a divine, she had not thought it necessary to blazon the intended nuptials of her niece to the neighbourhood, had even time been allowed: she thought, therefore, that she was now communicating a profound secret to the negro and her housekeeper.

  “Caesar,” she commenced with a smile, “you are now to learn, that your young mistress, Miss Sarah, is to be united to Colonel Wellmere this evening.”

  “I tink I see him afore,” said Caesar, chuckling; “old black man can tell when a young lady make up he mind.”

  “Really, Caesar, I find I have never given you credit for half the observation that you deserve; but as you already know on what emergency your services are required, listen to the directions of this gentleman, and take care to observe them strictly.”

  The black turned in quiet submission to the surgeon, who commenced as follows:

  “Caesar, your mistress has already acquainted you with the important event about to be solemnized within this habitation; but a cincture or ring is wanting to encircle the finger of the bride, a custom derived from the Ancients, and which has been continued in the marriage forms of several branches of the Christian Church; and which is even, by a species of typical wedlock, used in the installation of prelates, as you doubtless understand—”

  “P’r’aps, Massa Doctor will say him over again,” interrupted the old negro, whose memory began to fail him, just as the other made so confident an allusion to his powers of comprehension—“I t’ink I get him, by heart, this time.”

  “It is impossible to gather honey from a rock, Caesar, and therefore, I will abridge the little I have to say. Ride to the Four Corners, and present this note to Sergeant Hollister, or to Mrs. Elizabeth Flanagan, either of whom will furnish the necessary pledge of connubial affection, and return forthwith.”

  The letter which the surgeon put into the hands of his messenger, as he ceased, was conceived in the following terms.

  “If the fever has left Kinder, give him nourishment. Take three ounces more of blood from Watson. Have a search made that the woman Flanagan has left none of her jugs of alcohol in the hospital;—renew the dressings of Johnson, and dismiss Smith to duty. Send the ring, which is pendent from the chain of the watch that I left with you to time the doses, by the bearer.

  “ARCHIBALD SITGREAVES, M.D.

  Surgeon of Dragoons.”

  “Caesar,” said Katy, when she was alone with the black, “put the ring when you get it, in your left pocket, for that is nighest your heart; and by no means endeavour to try it on your finger, for it is unlucky.”—

  “Try um on he finger?” interrupted the negro, stretching forth his bony knuckles; “tink a Miss Sally’s ring go on old Caesar finger?”

  “’Tis not consequential whether it goes on, or not,” said the housekeeper; “but it is an evil omen to place a marriage ring on the finger of another after wedlock, and of course it may be dangerous before.”

  “I tell you Katy, I nebber tink to put um on a finger.”

  “Go then, Caesar, and do not forget the left pocket, be careful to take off your hat as you pass the grave yard, and be expeditious, for nothing, I am certain, can be more trying to the patience, than thus to be waiting for the ceremony, when a body has fully made up her mind to marry.”

  With this injunction Caesar quitted the house, and he was soon firmly fixed in the saddle. From his youth, the black, like all of his race, had been a hard rider; but bending under the weight of sixty winters, his African blood had lost some of its native heat. The night was dark, and the wind whistled through the vale with the dreariness of November.—When Caesar reached the grave-yard, he uncovered his grizzled head with superstitious awe, and he threw around him many a fearful glance, in momentary expectation of seeing something superhuman. There was sufficient light to discern a being of earthly mould stealing from among the graves apparently with a design to enter the highway. It is in vain that philosophy and reason contend with early impressions, and poor Caesar was even without the support of either of these frail allies. He was, however, well mounted on a coach-horse of Mr. Wharton’s, and clinging to the back of the animal with instinctive skill, he abandoned the rein to the beast. Hillocks, woods, rocks, fences and houses flew by him with the rapidity of lightning, and the black had just begun to think whither and on what business he was riding in this headlong manner, when he reached the place where the roads met, and the “Hotel Flanagan” stood before him in its dilapidated simplicity. The sight of a cheerful fire first told the negro that he had reached the habitation of man, and with it came all his dread of the bloody Virginians;—his duty must, however, be done, and, dismounting, he fastened the foaming animal to a fence, and approached the window, with cautious steps, to reconnoitre.

  Before a blazing fire sat Sergeant Hollister and Betty Flanagan, enjoying themselves over a liberal potation.

  “I tell yee sargeant, dear,” said Betty, removing the mug from her mouth, “’tis no rasonable to think it was more than the pidlar himself; sure now, where was the smell of sulphur, and the wings, and the tail, and the cloven foot?—besides sargeant, it’s no dacent to tell a lone famale that she had Beelzeboob for a bedfellow.”

  “It matters but little Mrs. Flanagan, provided you escape his talons and fangs hereafter,” returned the veteran, following the remark by a heavy draught.

  Caesar heard enough to convince him, that little danger from this pair was to be apprehended. His teeth already began to chatter, and the cold without and the comfort within stimulated him greatly to enter. He made his approaches with proper caution, and knocked with extreme humility. The appearance of Hollister with a drawn sword, roughly demanding who was without, contributed in no degree to the restoration of his faculties; but fear itself lent him power to explain his errand.

  “Advance,” said the sergeant, throwing a look of close scrutiny on the black, as he brought him to the light; “advance, and deliver your despatches:—have you the countersign?”

  “I don’t tink he know what dat be,” said the black, shaking in his shoes, “dough massa dat sent me gib me many tings to carry, dat he little understand.”

  “Who ordered you on this duty did you say?”

  “Well, it war’ he doctor, heself, and so he come up on a gallop, as he alway do on a doctor’s errand.”

  “’Twas Doctor Sitgreaves; he never knows the countersign himself—now, blackey, had it been Captain Lawton, he would not have sent you here close to a sentinel without the countersign; for you might get a pistol bullet through your head, and that would be cruel to you, for although you be black, I am none of them who thinks niggars have no souls.”

  “Sure a nagur has as much sowl as a white,” said Betty; “come hither, ould man, and warm that shivering carcass of yeers by the blaze of this fire. I’m sure a Guinea nagur loves heat as much as a souldier loves his drop.”

 
; Caesar obeyed in silence, and a mulatto boy, who was sleeping on a bench in the room, was bidden to convey the note of the surgeon to the building where the wounded were quartered.

  “Here,” said the washerwoman, tendering to Caesar a taste of the article that most delighted herself, “try a drop, smooty, ’twill warm the black sowl within your crazy body, and be giving you spirits as yee’r going homeward.”

  “I tell you, Elizabeth,” said the sergeant, “that the souls of niggars are the same as our own; how often have I heard the good Mr. Whitfield say, that there was no distinction of col­our in heaven. Therefore it is reasonable to believe, that the soul of this here black, is as white as my own, or even Major Dunwoodie’s.”