University of Virginia Library

1. LIONEL LINCOLN;
or,
THE LEAGUER OF BOSTON. VOL I.

CHAPTER I.

Gray.

No American can be ignorant of the principal
events that induced the parliament of Great
Britain, in 1774, to lay those impolitic restrictions
on the port of Boston, which so effectually destroyed
the trade of the chief town in her western
colonies. Nor should it be unknown to any American,
how nobly, and with what devotedness to
the great principles of the controversy, the inhabitants
of the adjacent town of Salem refused to
profit by the situation of their neighbours and fellow-subjects.
In consequence of these impolitic
measures of the English government, and of the
laudable unanimity among the capitalists of the
times, it became a rare sight to see the canvass of
any other vessels than such as wore the pennants
of the king, whitening the forsaken waters of Massachusetts
bay.

Towards the decline of a day in April, 1775,
however, the eyes of hundreds had been fastened
on a distant sail, which was seen rising from the
bosom of the waves, making her way along the
forbidden track, and steering directly for the
mouth of the proscribed haven. With that deep
solicitude in passing events which marked the
period, a large group of spectators was collected
on Beacon-Hill, spreading from its conical summit,
far down the eastern declivity, all gazing intently
on the object of their common interest. In so
large an assemblage, however, there were those
who were excited by very different feelings, and
indulging in wishes directly opposite to each other.
While the decent, grave, but wary citizen was endeavouring
to conceal the bitterness of the sensations
which soured his mind, under the appearance
of a cold indifference, a few gay young men, who
mingled in the throng, bearing about their persons
the trappings of their martial profession, were
loud in their exultations, and hearty in their congratulations
on the prospect of hearing from their
distant homes and absent friends. But the long,
loud rolls of the drums, ascending on the evening
air, from the adjacent common, soon called these
idle spectators, in a body, from the spot, when the
hill was left to the quiet possession of those who
claimed the strongest right to its enjoyment. It
was not, however, a period for open and unreserved
communications. Long before the mists of
evening had succeeded the shadows thrown from
the setting sun, the hill was entirely deserted; the
remainder of the spectators having descended from
the eminence, and held their several courses, singly,
silent, and thoughtful, towards the rows of dusky
roofs that covered the lowland, along the eastern
side of the peninsula. Notwithstanding this appearance
of apathy, rumour, which, in times of
great excitement, ever finds means to convey its

whisperings, when it dare not bruit its information
aloud, was busy in circulating the unwelcome intelligence,
that the stranger was the first of a fleet,
bringing stores and reinforcements to an army
already too numerous, and too confident of its
power, to respect the law. No tumult or noise
succeeded this unpleasant annunciation, but the
doors of the houses were sullenly closed, and the
windows darkened, as if the people intended to
express their dissatisfaction, alone, by these silent
testimonials of their disgust.

In the mean time the ship had gained the rocky
entrance to the harbour, where, deserted by the
breeze, and met by an adverse tide, she lay inactive,
as if conscious of the unwelcome reception
she must receive. The fears of the inhabitants of
Boston had, however, exaggerated the danger;
for the vessel, instead of exhibiting the confused
and disorderly throng of licentious soldiery which
would have crowded a transport, was but thinly
peopled, and her orderly decks were cleared of
every incumbrance that could interfere with the
comfort of those she did contain. There was an appearance,
in the arrangements of her external accommodations,
which would have indicated to an
observant eye, that she carried those who claimed
the rank, or possessed the means, of making others
contribute largely to their comforts. The few seamen
who navigated the ship, lay extended on different
portions of the vessel, watching the lazy sails
as they flapped against the masts, or indolently
bending their looks on the placid waters of the bay;
while several menials, in livery, crowded around a
young man who was putting his eager inquiries to
the pilot, that had just boarded the vessel off the
Graves. The dress of this youth was studiously
neat, and from the excessive pains bestowed on its
adjustment, it was obviously deemed, by its wearer,
to be in the height of the prevailing customs

From the place where this inquisitive party stood,
nigh the main-mast, a wide sweep of the quarter-deck
was untenanted; but nearer to the spot where
the listless seaman hung idly over the tiller of the
ship, stood a being of altogether different mould and
fashion. He was a man who would have seemed
in the very extremity of age, had not his quick,
vigorous steps, and the glowing, rapid glances
from his eyes, as he occasionally paced the deck,
appeared to deny the usual indications of many
years. His form was bowed, and attenuated nearly
to emaciation. His hair, which fluttered a little
wildly around his temples, was thin, and silvered to
the whiteness of at least eighty winters. Deep furrows,
like the lines of great age and long endured
cares united, wrinkled his hollow cheeks, and rendered
the bold haughty outline of his prominent features
still more remarkable. He was clad in a simple
and somewhat tarnished suit of modest gray,
which bore about it the ill-concealed marks of long
and neglected use. Whenever he turned his piercing
look from the shores, he moved swiftly along
the deserted quarter deck, and seemed entirely
engrossed with the force of his own thoughts, his
lips moving rapidly, though no sounds were heard
to issue from a mouth that was habitually silent.
He was under the influence of one of those sudden
impulses in which the body, apparently,
sympathized so keenly with the restless activity of
the mind, when a young man ascended from the
cabin, and took his stand among the interested and
excited gazers at the land, on the upper deck.
The age of this gentleman might have been five
and twenty. He wore a military cloak, thrown
carelessly across his form, which, in addition to
such parts of his dress as were visible through its
open folds, sufficiently announced that his profession
was that of arms. There was an air of ease
and high fashion gleaming about his person, though
his speaking countenance, at times, seemed melancholy,
if not sad. On gaining the deck, this young
officer, encountering the eyes of the aged and restless
being who trod its planks, bowed courteously
before he turned away to the view, and in his turn
became deeply absorbed in studying its fading
beauties.

The rounded heights of Dorchester were radiant
with the rays of the luminary that had just sunk
behind their crest, and streaks of paler light were
playing along the waters, and gilding the green
summits of the islands which clustered across the
mouth of the estuary. Far in the distance were
to be seen the tall spires of the churches, rising out
of the deep shadows of the town, with their vanes
glittering in the sun-beams, while a few rays of
strong light were dancing about the black beacon,
which reared itself high above the conical peak
that took its name from the circumstance of supporting
this instrument of alarms. Several large
vessels were anchored among the islands and before
the town, their dark hulls, at each moment,
becoming less distinct through the haze of evening,
while the summits of their long lines of
masts were yet glowing with the marks of day.
From each of these sullen ships, from the low fortification
which rose above a small island deep in
the bay, and from various elevations in the town
itself, the broad, silky folds of the flag of England
were yet waving in the currents of the passing
air. The young man was suddenly aroused from
gazing at this scene, by the quick reports of the
evening guns, and while his eyes were yet tracing
the descent of the proud symbols of the British
power, from their respective places of display, he
felt his arm convulsively pressed by the hand of
his aged fellow-passenger.

“Will the day ever arrive,” said a low, hollow
voice at his elbow, “when those flags shall be
lowered, never to rise again in this hemisphere!”

The young soldier turned his quick eyes to the
countenance of the speaker, but bent them instantly
in embarrassment on the deck, to avoid the keen,
searching glance he encountered in the looks of
the other. A long, and on the part of the young
man, a painful silence succeeded this remark. At
length the youth, pointing to the land, said—

“Tell me, you, who are of Boston, and must
have known it so long, the names of all these
beautiful places I see.”

“And are you not of Boston, too?” asked his
old companion.

“Certainly by birth, but an Englishman by
habit and education.”

“Accursed be the habits, and neglected the
education, which would teach a child to forget its
parentage!” muttered the old man, turning suddenly,
and walking away so rapidly as to be soon
lost in the forward parts of the ship.

For several minutes longer, the youth stood absorbed
in his own musings, when, as if recollecting
his previous purposes, he called aloud—“Meriton.”

At the sounds of his voice the curious group
around the pilot instantly separated, and the highly
ornamented youth, before mentioned, approached
the officer, with a manner in which pert familiarity
and fearful respect were peculiarly blended.
Without regarding the air of the other, however,
or indeed without even favouring him with a
glance, the young soldier continued—

“I desired you to detain the boat which boarded
us, in order to convey me to the town, Mr. Meriton;
see if it be in readiness.”

The valet flew to execute this commission, and in
an instant returned with a reply in the affirmative.

“But, sir,” he continued, “you will never think
of going in that boat, I feel very much assured,
sir.”

“Your assurance, Mr. Meriton, is not the least
of your recommendations; why should I not?”

“That disagreeable old stranger has taken possession
of it, with his mean, filthy bundle of rags;
and—”

“And what? you must name a greater evil,
to detain me here, than mentioning the fact that
the only gentleman in the ship is to be my companion.”

“Lord, sir!” said Meriton, glancing his eye upward
in amazement; “but, sir, surely you know
best as to gentility of behaviour—but as to gentility
of dress—”

“Enough of this,” interrupted his master, a little
angrily; “the company is such as I am content
with; if you find it unequal to your deserts, you
have my permission to remain in the ship until
the morning—the presence of a coxcomb is by no
means necessary to my comfort for one night.”

Without regarding the mortification of his disconcerted
valet, the young man passed along the
deck to the place where the boat was in waiting.
By the general movement among the indolent menials,
and the profound respect with which he was
attended by the master of the ship to the gangway,
it was sufficiently apparent, that notwithstanding
his youth, it was this gentleman whose presence had
exacted those arrangements in the ship, which have
been mentioned. While all around him, however,
were busy in facilitating the entrance of the officer
into the boat, the aged stranger occupied its principal
seat, with an air of deep abstraction, if not of
cool indifference. A hint from the pliant Meriton,
who had ventured to follow his master, that it would
be more agreeable if he would relinquish his place,

was disregarded, and the youth took a seat by the
side of the old man, with a simplicity of manner
that his valet inwardly pronounced abundantly
degrading. As if this humiliation were not sufficient,
the young man perceiving that a general
pause had succeeded his own entrance, turned to
his companion, and courteously inquired if he were
ready to proceed. A silent wave of the hand was
the reply, when the boat shot away from the vessel,
leaving the ship steering for an anchorage in
Nantasket.

The measured dash of the oars was uninterrupted
by any voice, while, stemming the tide, they pulled
laboriously up among the islands; but by the
time they had reached the castle, the twilight had
melted into the softer beams from a young moon,
and the surrounding objects becoming more distinct,
the stranger commenced talking with that
quick and startling vehemence which seemed his
natural manner. He spoke of the localities, with the
vehemence and fondness of an enthusiast, and with
the familiarity of one who had long known their
beauties. His rapid utterance, however, ceased as
they approached the naked wharves, and he sunk
back gloomily in the boat, as if unwilling to trust
his voice on the subject of his country's wrongs.
Thus left to his own thoughts, the youth gazed,
with eager interest, at the long ranges of buildings,
which were now clearly visible to the eye, though
with softer colours and more gloomy shadows. A
few neglected and dismantled ships were lying at
different points; but the hum of business, the forests
of masts, and the rattling of wheels which at that
early hour should have distinguished the great mart
of the colonies, were wanting. In their places
were to be heard, at intervals, the sudden bursts of
distant, martial music, the riotous merriment of the
soldiery who frequented the taverns at the water's

edge, or the sullen challenges of the sentinels from
the vessels of war, as they vexed the progress of
the few boats which the inhabitants still used in
their ordinary pursuits.

“Here indeed is a change!” the young officer
exclaimed, as they glided swiftly along this desolate
scene; “even my recollections, young and
fading as they are, recall the difference!”

The stranger made no reply, but a smile of singular
meaning gleamed across his wan features,
imparting, by the moonlight, to their remarkable
expression. a character of additional wildness.
The officer was again silent, nor did either speak
until the boat, having shot by the end of the long
wharf, across whose naked boundaries a sentinel
was pacing his measured path, inclined more to
the shore, and soon reached the place of its
destination.

Whatever might have been the respective feelings
of the two passengers at having thus reached in
safety the object of their tiresome and protracted
voyage, they were not expressed in language. The
old man bared his silver locks, and concealing his
face with his hat, stood as if in deep mental thanks-giving
at the termination of his toil, while his
more youthful companion trod the wharf on which
they landed with the air of a man whose emotions
were too engrossing for the ordinary use of words.

“Here we must part, sir,” the officer at length
said; “but I trust the acquaintance which has been
thus accidentally formed between us, is not to be
forgotten now there is an end to our common privations.”

“It is not in the power of a man whose days, like
mine, are numbered,” returned the stranger, “to
mock the liberality of his God, by any vain promises
that must depend on time for their fulfilment.
I am one, young gentleman, who has returned from

a sad, sad pilgrimage in the other hemisphere, to
lay his bones in this, his native land; but should
many hours be granted me, you will hear further
of the man whom your courtesy and kindness have
so greatly obliged.”

The officer was sensibly affected by the softened
but solemn manner of his companion, and pressed
his wasted hand fervently as he answered—

“Do; I ask it as a singular favour; I know
not why, but you have obtained a command of my
feelings that no other being ever yet possessed—
and yet—'tis a mystery, 'tis like a dream! I feel
that I not only venerate, but love you!”

The old man stepped back, and held the youth at
the length of his arm for a moment, while he fastened
on him a look of glowing interest, and then
raising his hand slowly, he pointed impressively
upward, and said—

“'Tis from heaven, and for God's own purposes—smother
not the sentiment, boy, but cherish
it in your heart's core!”

The reply of the youth was interrupted by
sudden and violent shrieks, that burst rudely on
the stillness of the place, chilling the very blood
of those who heard them, with their piteousness.
The quick and severe blows of a lash were blended
with the exclamations of the sufferer, and rude
oaths, with hoarse execrations, from various voices,
were united in the uproar, which appeared to be at
no great distance. By a common impulse, the
whole party broke away from the spot, and moved
rapidly up the wharf in the direction of the sounds.
As they approached the buildings, a group was
seen collected around the man who thus broke the
charm of evening by his cries, interrupting his
wailings with their ribaldry, and encouraging his
tormentors to proceed.

“Mercy, mercy, for the sake of the blessed God,
have mercy, and don't kill Job!” again shrieked
the sufferer; “Job will run your a'r'nds! Job is
half-witted! Mercy on poor Job! Oh! you make
his flesh creep!”

“I'll cut the heart from the mutinous knave,”
interrupted a hoarse, angry voice; “to refuse to
drink the health of his majesty!”

“Job does wish him good health—Job loves the
king, only Job don't love rum.”

The officer had approached so nigh as to perceive
that the whole scene was one of disorder
and abuse, and pushing aside the crowd of excited
and deriding soldiers, who composed the throng,
he broke at once into the centre of the circle.