The Spy & Lionel Lincoln

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Out upon thee for a reviler and scoffer of goodness!” said Birch, moving slowly, and with a due observance of clerical dignity, down the road, followed by the imaginary Caesar; “but I leave thee, and that behind me that will prove thy condemnation, and take from thee a hearty and joyful deliverance.”

  “Damn him,” muttered the trooper; “the fellow rides like a stake, and his legs stick out like the cocks of his hat. I wish I had him below these hills where the law is not over particular, I’d”—

  “Corporal of the guard!—corporal of the guard!”—shouted the sentinel, in the passage to the chambers, “corporal of the guard!—corporal of the guard!”

  The subaltern flew up the narrow stair-way that led to the room of the prisoner, and demanded the meaning of the outcry.

  The soldier was standing at the open door of the apartment, looking in with a suspicious eye, on the supposed British officer. On observing his lieutenant he fell back with habitual respect, and replied with an air of puzzled thought—

  “I don’t know, sir; but just now the prisoner looked queer. Ever since the preacher has left him, he don’t look as he used to do—but”—gazing intently over the shoulder of his officer, “it must be him, too! There is the same powdered head, and the darn in the coat, where he was hit the day we had the last brush with the enemy.”

  “And then all this noise is occasioned, by your doubting whether that poor gentleman is your prisoner, or not, is it sirrah? Who the devil do you think it can be else?”

  “I don’t know who else it can be,” returned the fellow sullenly; “but he is grown thicker and shorter, if it is he; and, see for yourself, sir, he shakes all over like a man in an ague.”

  This was but too true. Caesar was an alarmed auditor of this short conversation, and from congratulating himself upon the dexterous escape of his young master, his thoughts were very naturally beginning to dwell upon the probable consequences to his own person. The pause that succeeded the last remark of the sentinel, in no degree contributed to the restoration of his faculties. Lieutenant Mason was busied in examining with his own eyes, the suspected person of the black, and Caesar was aware of the fact, by stealing a look through a passage under one of his arms, that he had left expressly for the purpose of reconnoitring. Captain Lawton would have discovered the fraud immediately, but Mason was by no means so quick-sighted as his commander. He therefore turned rather contemptuously to the soldier, and speaking in an under tone, observed—

  “That anabaptist, methodistical, quaker, psalm-singing ras­cal, has frightened the boy, with his farrago about flames and brimstone. I’ll step in and cheer him with a little rational conversation.”

  “I have heard of fear making a man white,” said the soldier drawing back, and staring as if his eyes would start from their sockets; “but it has changed the royal captain to a black!”

  The truth was, that Caesar, unable to hear what Mason uttered in a low voice, and having every fear aroused in him by what had already passed, incautiously removed the wig a little from one of his ears in order to hear the better, without in the least remembering that its colour might prove fatal to his disguise. The sentinel had kept his eyes fastened on his prisoner and noticed the action. The attention of Mason was instantly drawn to the same object, and forgetting all delicacy for a brother officer in distress, or, in short, forgetting every thing but the censure that might alight on his corps, the lieutenant sprang forward and seized the terrified African by the throat. For no sooner had Caesar heard his colour named, than he knew his discovery was certain; and at the first sound of Mason’s heavy boot on the floor, he arose from his seat and retreated precipitately to a corner of the room.

  “Who are you?” cried Mason, dashing the head of the old man against the angle of the wall at each interrogatory, “who the devil are you, and where is the Englishman? Speak! thou thundercloud. Answer me, you jack-daw, or I’ll hang you on the gallows of the spy.”

  Caesar continued firm. Neither the threats nor the blows could extract any reply, until the lieutenant, by a very natural transition in the attack, sent his heavy boot forward in a direction that brought it in direct contact with the most sensitive part of the negro—his shin. The most obdurate heart could not have exacted further patience, and Caesar instantly gave in. The first words he spoke were—

  “Golly! Massa! You tink I got no feelin?”

  “By Heavens!” shouted the lieutenant; “it is the negro himself! Scoundrel! where is your master, and who was the priest?” While speaking he made a movement as if about to renew the attack; but Caesar cried aloud for mercy, promising to tell all that he knew.

  “Who was the priest?” repeated the dragoon, drawing back his formidable leg, and holding it in threatening suspense.

  “Harvey, Harvey!” cried Caesar, dancing from one leg to the other, as he thought each member in turn might be assailed.

  “Harvey who? you black villain,” cried the impatient lieutenant, as he executed a full measure of vengeance by letting his leg fly.

  “Birch!” shrieked Caesar, falling on his knees, the tears rolling in large drops over his shining face.

  “Harvey Birch!” echoed the trooper, hurling the black from him and rushing from the room; “To arms! to arms! Fifty guineas for the life of the Pedlar spy—give no quarter to either. Mount, mount! to arms! to horse!”

  During the uproar occasioned by the assembling of the dragoons, who all rushed tumultuously to their horses, Caesar rose from the floor, where he had been thrown by Mason, and began to examine into his injuries.—Happily for himself, he had alighted on his head, and consequently sustained no material damage.

  * By “Eastern” is meant the states of New England, which, being originally settled by Puritans, still retain many distinct shades of character.

  Chapter XXIX

  “Away went Gilpin, neck or nought,

  Away went hat and wig!

  He little dreamt, when he set out,

  Of running such a rig!”

  Cowper.

  * * *

  THE ROAD which it was necessary for the pedlar and the English captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of the hills, lay for a half-mile in full view from the door of the building that had so recently been the prison of the latter; running for the whole distance over the rich plain that spreads to the very foot of the mountains, which here rise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their bases; it then turned short to the right, and was obliged to follow the windings of nature as it won its way into the bosom of the highlands.

  To preserve the supposed difference in their stations, Harvey rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and maintained the sober, dignified pace that was suited to his assumed character. On their right, the regiment of foot that we have already mentioned lay in tents; and the sentinels who guarded their encampment, were to be seen moving with measured tread, under the skirts of the hills themselves.

  The first impulse of Henry was, certainly, to urge the beast he rode to his greatest speed at once, and by a coup-de-main, not only accomplish his escape, but relieve himself from the torturing suspense of his situation. But the forward movement that the youth made for this purpose was instantly checked by the pedlar.

  “Hold up!” he cried, dexterously reining his own horse across the path of the other; “would you ruin us both? Fall into the place of a black, following his master. Did you not see their blooded chargers, all saddled and bridled, standing in the sun before the house? How long do you think that miserable Dutch horse you are on, would hold his speed, if pursued by the Virginians? Every foot that we can gain, without giving the alarm, counts a day in our lives. Ride steadily after me, and on no account look back. They are as subtle as foxes, aye, and as ravenous for blood, as wolves!”

  Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and followed the direction of the pedlar. His imagination, however, continually alarmed him wi
th the fancied sounds of pursuit; though Birch who occasionally looked back under the pretence of addressing his companion, assured him that all continued quiet and peaceful.

  “But,” said Henry, “it will not be possible for Caesar to remain long undiscovered. Had we not better put our horses to the gallop, and by the time they can reflect on the cause of our flight, we can reach the corner of the woods?”

  “Ah! you little know them, Captain Wharton,” returned the pedlar; “there is a sergeant at this moment looking after us, as if he thought all was not right—the keen-eyed fellow watches me like a tiger laying in wait for his leap; when I stood on the horse-block he half suspected that something was wrong; nay, check your beast—we must let the animals walk a little, for he is laying his hand on the pommel of his saddle—if he mounts, we are gone. The foot-soldiers could reach us with their muskets.”

  “What does he now?” asked Henry, reining his horse to a walk, but at the same time pressing his heels into the animal’s sides, to be in readiness for a spring.

  “He turns from his charger, and looks the other way; now trot on gently—not so fast—not so fast—observe the sentinel in the field, a little ahead of us—he eyes us, keenly.”

  “Never mind the footman,” said Henry impatiently; “he can do nothing but shoot us—whereas, these dragoons may make me a captive again. Surely, Harvey, there are horse moving down the road behind us. Do you see nothing particular?”

  “Humph!” ejaculated the pedlar; “there is something particular indeed, to be seen behind the thicket on our left—turn your head a little, and you may see and profit by it too.”

  Henry eagerly seized this permission to look aside, and the blood curdled to his heart as he observed that they were passing a gallows, which unquestionably had been erected for his own execution:—he turned his face from the sight in undisguised horror.

  “There is a warning to be prudent,” said the pedlar, in the sententious manner that he often adopted.

  “It is a terrific sight, indeed!” cried Henry, for a moment veiling his eyes with his hand, as if to drive a vision from before him.

  The pedlar moved his body partly around, and spoke with energetic but gloomy bitterness—“and yet, Captain Wharton, you see it where the setting sun shines full upon you; the air you breathe is clear, and fresh from the hills before you. Every step that you take, leaves that hated gallows behind, and every dark hollow, and every shapeless rock in the mountains, offers you a hiding place from the vengeance of your enemies. But I have seen the gibbet raised, when no place of refuge offered. Twice have I been buried in dungeons, where, fettered and in chains, I have passed nights in torture, looking forward to the morning’s dawn that was to light me to a death of infamy. The sweat has started from limbs that seemed already drained of their moisture, and if I ventured to the hole that admitted air through grates of iron, to look out upon the smiles of nature, which God has bestowed for the meanest of his creatures, the gibbet has glared before my eyes like an evil conscience, harrowing the soul of a dying man. Four times have I been in their power, besides this last; but—twice—twice—did I think my hour had come. It is hard to die at the best, Captain Wharton; but to spend your last moments, alone and unpitied, to know that none near you so much as think of the fate that is to you the closing of all that is earthly; to think, that in a few hours, you are to be led from the gloom, which as you dwell on what follows, becomes dear to you, to the face of day, and there to meet all eyes fixed upon you, as if you were a wild beast; and to lose sight of every thing amidst the jeers and scoffs of your fellow-creatures. That, Captain Wharton, that indeed is to die!”

  Henry listened in amazement, as his companion uttered this speech with a vehemence altogether new to him; both seemed to have forgotten their danger and their disguises,—

  “What! were you ever so near death as that?”

  “Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for three years past?” resumed Harvey; “and once they even led me to the foot of the gallows itself, and I escaped only by an alarm from the royal troops. Had they been a quarter of an hour later, I must have died. There was I placed in the midst of unfeeling men, and gaping women and children, as a monster to be cursed. When I would pray to God, my ears were insulted with the history of my crimes; and when in all that multitude I looked around for a single face that showed me any pity, I could find none—no, not even one—all cursed me as a wretch who would sell his country for gold. The sun was brighter to my eyes than common—but it was the last time I should see it. The fields were gay and pleasant, and every thing seemed as if this world was a kind of heaven. Oh! how sweet life was to me at that moment! ’Twas a dreadful hour, Captain Wharton, and such as you have never known. You have friends to feel for you, but I had none but a father to mourn my loss, when he might hear of it; but there was no pity, no consolation near, to soothe my anguish. Every thing seemed to have deserted me.—I even thought that HE had forgotten that I lived.”

  “What! did you feel that God himself, had forsaken you, Harvey?”

  “God never forsakes his servants,” returned Birch with reverence, and exhibiting naturally a devotion that hitherto he had only assumed.

  “And who did you mean by HE?”

  The pedlar raised himself in his saddle to the stiff and upright posture that was suited to his outward appearance. The look of fire that for a short time glowed on his countenance disappeared in the solemn lines of unbending self-abasement, and speaking as if addressing a negro, he replied—

  “In heaven there is no distinction of colour, my brother, therefore you have a precious charge within you, that you must hereafter render an account of,”—dropping his voice, “this is the last sentinel near the road; look not back, as you value your life.”

  Henry remembered his situation, and instantly assumed the humble demeanour of his adopted character. The unaccountable energy of the pedlar’s manner was soon forgotten in the sense of his own immediate danger; and with the recollection of his critical situation, returned all the uneasiness that he had momentarily forgotten.

  “What see you, Harvey?” he cried, observing the pedlar to gaze towards the building they had left, with ominous interest; “what see you at the house?”

  “That which bodes no good to us,” returned the pretended priest. “Throw aside the mask and wig—you will need all your senses without much delay—throw them in the road: there are none before us that I dread, but there are those behind who will give us a fearful race!”

  “Nay, then,” cried the captain, casting the implements of his disguise into the highway, “let us improve our time to the utmost—we want a full quarter to the turn; why not push for it, at once?”

  “Be cool—they are in alarm, but they will not mount without an officer, unless they see us fly—now he comes—he moves to the stables—trot briskly—a dozen are in their saddles, but the officer stops to tighten his girths—they hope to steal a march upon us—he is mounted—now ride, Captain Wharton, for your life, and keep at my heels. If you quit me you will be lost!”

  A second request was unnecessary. The instant that Harvey put his horse to his speed, Captain Wharton was at his heels, urging the miserable animal he rode to the utmost. Birch had selected his own beast, and although vastly inferior to the high fed and blooded chargers of the dragoons, still it was much superior to the little pony that had been thought good enough to carry Caesar Thompson on an errand. A very few jumps convinced the captain that his companion was fast leaving him, and a fearful glance thrown behind, informed the fugitive that his enemies were as speedily approaching. With that feeling of abandonment that makes misery doubly grievous, when it is to be supported alone, Henry cried aloud to the pedlar not to desert him. Harvey instantly drew up and suffered his companion to run alongside of his own horse. The cocked hat and wig of the pedlar fell from his head, the moment that his steed began to move briskly, and this development of t
heir disguise, as it might be termed, was witnessed by the dragoons, who announced their observation by a boisterous shout, that seemed to be uttered in the very ears of the fugitives—so loud was the cry, and so short the distance between them.

  “Had we not better leave our horses?” said Henry, “and make for the hills across the fields, on our left—the fence will stop our pursuers.”

  “That way lies the gallows,” returned the pedlar—“these fellows go three feet to our two, and would mind the fences no more than we do these ruts; but it is a short quarter to the turn, and there are two roads behind the wood. They may stand to choose until they can take the track, and we shall gain a little upon them there.”

  “But this miserable horse is blown already,” cried Henry, urging his beast with the end of his bridle, at the same time that Harvey aided his efforts by applying the lash of a heavy riding whip he carried; “he will never stand it for a half a mile further.”

  “A quarter will do—a quarter will do,” said the pedlar; “a single quarter will save us, if you follow my directions.”

  Somewhat cheered by the cool and confident manner of his companion, Henry continued silently urging his horse forward. A few moments brought them to the desired turn, and as they doubled round a point of low under-brush, the fugitives caught a glimpse of their pursuers scattered along the highway.—Mason and the sergeant being better mounted than the rest of the party, were much nearer to their heels than even the pedlar thought could be possible.

  At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the dark valley that wound among the mountains, a thick underwood of saplings had been suffered to shoot up, where the heavier growth was felled for the sake of the fuel. At the sight of this cover Henry again urged the pedlar to dismount and to plunge into the woods, but his request was promptly refused. The two roads before mentioned met at a very sharp angle, at a short distance from the turn, and both were circuitous, so that but little of either could be seen at a time. The pedlar took the one which led to the left, but held it only a moment; for on reaching a partial opening in the thicket, he darted across into the right-hand path, and led the way up a steep ascent which lay directly before them. This manoeuvre saved them.—On reaching the fork the dragoons followed the track, and passed the spot where the fugitives had crossed to the other road, before they missed the marks of the footsteps. Their loud cries were heard, by Henry and the pedlar as their wearied and breathless animals toiled up the hill, ordering their comrades in the rear to ride in the right direction. The captain again proposed to leave their horses and dash into the thicket.