 | CHAPTER VIII. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
“To purify the air;
“Thy tears, to thread, instead of pearl,
“On bracelets of thy hair.”
Devenent
Lionel might have blushed to acknowledge the
secret and inexplicable influence which his unknown
and mysterious friend, Ralph, had obtained
over his feelings, but which induced him, on
leaving his own quarters thus hastily, to take his
way into the lower parts of the town, in quest of
the residence of Abigail Pray. He had not visited
the sombre tenement of this woman since the night
of his arrival, but its proximity to the well-known
town-hall, as well as the quaint architecture of the
building itself, had frequently brought its exterior
under his observation, in the course of his rambles
through the place of his nativity. A guide being,
consequently, unnecessary, he took the
most direct and frequented route to the docksquare.
When Lionel issued into the street, he
found a deep darkness already enveloping the
peninsula of Boston, as if nature had lent herself
to the secret designs of the British commandant.
The fine strain of a shrill fife was playing among
the naked hills of the place, accompanied by the
occasional and measured taps of the sullen drum;
would rise from the common, and borne on the
night-air, sweep along the narrow streets, causing
the nerves of the excited young soldier to thrill
with a stern pleasure, as he stepped proudly along.
The practised ear, however, detected no other
sounds in the music than the usual nightly signal of
rest; and when the last melting strains of the horns
seemed to be lost in the clouds, a stillness fell upon
the town, like the deep and slumbering quiet
of midnight. He paused a moment before the
gates of Province-house, and, after examining,
with an attentive eye, the windows of the building,
he spoke to the grenadier, who had stopped
in his short walk, to note the curious stranger.
“You should have company within, sentinel,”
he said, “by the brilliant light from those windows.”
The rattling of Lionel's side-arms as he pointed
with his hand in the direction of the illuminated
apartment, taught the soldier that he was addressed
by his superior, and he answered respectfully—
“It does not become one such as I, to pretend
to know much of what his betters do, your honour,
but I stood before the quarters of General Wolfe
the very night we went up to the Plains of Abram;
and I think an old soldier can tell when a movement
is at hand, without asking his superiors any
impertinent questions.”
“I suppose, from your remark, the General
holds a council to-night?” said Lionel.
“No one has gone in, sir, since I have been
posted,” returned the sentinel, “but the Lieutenant-Colonel
of the 10th, that great Northumbrian
Lord, and the old Major of marines; a great
war-dog is that old man, your honour, and it is
not often he comes to Province-house for nothing.”
“A good-night to you, my old comrade,” said
Lionel, walking away; “'tis probably some consultation
concerning the new exercises that you
practise.”
The grenadier shook his head, as if unconvinced,
and resumed his march with his customary
steadiness. A very few minutes now brought
Lionel before the low door of Abigail Pray,
where he again stopped, struck with the contrast
between the gloomy, dark, and unguarded threshold
over which he was about to pass, and the gay
portal he had just left. Urged, however, by his
feelings, the young man paused but a moment
before he tapped lightly for admission. After repeating
his summons, and hearing no reply, he
lifted the latch, and entered the building without
further ceremony. The large and vacant apartment
in which he found himself, was silent
and dreary as the still streets he had quitted.
Groping his way towards the little room in the
tower, where he had met the mother of Job, as
before related, Lionel found that apartment also
tenantless, and dark. He was turning in disappointment,
to quit the place, when a feeble
ray fell from the loft of the building, and settled
on the foot of a rude ladder which formed the
means of communication with its upper apartments.
Hesitating a single moment how to decide,
he then yielded to his anxiety, and ascended
to the floor above, with steps as light as extreme
caution could render them. Like the basement,
the building was subdivided here, into a
large, open ware-room, and a small, rudely-finished
apartment in each of its towers. Following the
rays from a candle, he stood on the threshold
of one of these little rooms, in which he found the
individual of whom he was in quest. The old man
was seated on the only broken chair which the
of straw which would seem, by the garments
thrown loosely over the pile, to be intended as his
place of rest, lay a large map, spread for inspection,
which his glazed and sunken eyes appeared
to be intently engaged in making. Lionel hesitated
again, while he regarded the white hairs which
fell across the temples of the stranger, as he bowed
his head in his employment, imparting a wild
and melancholy expression to his remarkable
countenance, and seeming to hallow their possessor
by the air of great age and attendant
care that they imparted.
“I have come to seek you,” the young man
at length said, “since you no longer deem me
worthy of your care.”
“You come too late,” returned Ralph, without
betraying the least emotion at the suddenness of
the interruption, or even raising his eyes from the
map he studied so intently; “too late at least to
avert calamity, if not to learn wisdom from its
lessons.”
“You know, then, of the secret movements of
the night?”
“Old age, like mine, seldom sleeps,” returned
Ralph, looking for the first time at his visiter,
“for the eternal night of death promises a speedy
repose. I too served an apprenticeship in my
youth to your trade of blood.”
“Your watchfulness and experience have then
detected the signs of preparation in the garrison?
Have they also discovered the objects, and probable
consequences of the enterprise?”
“Both; Gage weakly thinks to crush the
germ of liberty which has already quickened in
the land, by lopping its feeble branches, when it
is rooted in the hearts of the people. He thinks
of magazines.
“It is then only a measure of precaution that
he is about to take?”
The old man shook his head mournfully as he
answered—
“It will prove a measure of blood.”
“I intend to accompany the detachment into the
country,” said Lionel—“it will probably take
post at some little distance in the interior, and it
will afford me a fitting opportunity to make those
inquiries which you know are so near my heart,
and in which you have promised to assist—it is to
consult on the means that I have now sought you.”
The countenance of the stranger seemed to lose
its character of melancholy reflection, as Lionel
spoke, and his eyes moved, vacant and unmeaning,
over the naked rafters above him, passing in
their wanderings across the surface of the unheeded
map again, until they fell full upon the face of
the astonished youth, where they remained settled
for more than a minute, fixed in the glazed,
rivetted look of death. The lips of Lionel had already
opened in anxious inquiry, when the expression
of life shot again into the features of
Ralph, with the suddenness, and with an appearance
of the physical reality with which light flashes
from the sun when emerging from a cloud.
“You are ill!” Lionel exclaimed.
“Leave me,” said the old man, “leave me.”
“Surely not at such a moment, and alone.”
“I bid you leave me—we shall meet as you desire,
in the country.”
“You would then have me accompany the
troops, and expect your coming?”
“Both.”
“Pardon me,” said Lionel, dropping his eyes
in embarrassment, and speaking with hesitation,
your attire, is an evidence that old age has come
upon you when you are not altogether prepared
to meet its sufferings.”
“You would offer me money?”
“By accepting it, I shall become the obliged
party.”
“When my wants exceed my means, young
man, your offer shall be remembered. Go, now;
there is no time for delay.”
“But I would not leave you alone; the woman,
the termagant is better than none?”
“She is absent.”
“And the boy—the changeling has the feelings
of humanity, and would aid you in extremity.”
“He is better employed than in propping the
steps of a useless old man.—Go then, I entreat—
I command, sir, that you leave me.”
The firm, if not haughty, manner in which the
other repeated his desire, taught Lionel that he
had nothing more to expect at present, and he
obeyed reluctantly, by slowly leaving the apartment,
and as soon as he had descended the ladder
he began to retrace his steps towards his own quarters.
In crossing the light draw-bridge thrown over
the narrow dock, already mentioned, his contemplations
were first disturbed by the sounds
of voices, at no great distance, apparently conversing
in tones that were not intended to be heard
by every ear. It was a moment when each unusual
incident was likely to induce inquiry, and
Lionel stopped to examine two men, who, at
a little distance, held their secret and suppressed
communications. He had, however, paused but an
instant, when the whisperers separated, one walking
leisurely up the centre of the square, entering
under one of the arches of the market-place, and
which he himself was standing.
“What, Job, do I find you here, whispering
and plotting in the dock-square!” exclaimed Lionel;
“what secrets can you have, that require
the cover of night?”
“Job lives there, in the old ware'us',” said the
lad sullenly—“Nab has plenty of house room,
now the king wont let the people bring in their
goods.”
“But whither are you going into the water!
surely the road to your bed cannot be through
the town dock.”
“Nab wants fish to eat, as well as a ruff to keep
off the rain,” said Job, dropping lightly from the
bridge into a small canoe, which was fastened to
one of its posts, “and now the king has closed
the harbour the fish have to come up in the dark;
for come they will; Boston fish an't to be shut
out by acts of Parliament!”
“Poor lad!” exclaimed Lionel, “return to
your home and your bed; here is money to buy
food for your mother if she suffers—you will
draw a shot from some of the sentinels by going
about the harbour thus at night.”
“Job can see a ship farther than a ship can see
Job,” returned the other; “and if they should
kill Job, they need'n't think to shoot a Boston
boy without some stir.”
Further dialogue was precluded; the canoe
gliding along the outer dock into the harbour,
with a stillness and swiftness that showed the idiot
was not ignorant of the business which he had undertaken.
Lionel resumed his walk, and was passing
the head of the square when he encountered,
face to face, under the light of a lamp, the man
whose figure he had seen but a minute before to
to ascertain the identity of each other drew
them together.
“We meet again, Major Lincoln,” said the interesting
stranger Lionel remembered to have
seen at the political meeting. “Our interviews
appear ordained to occur in secret places.”
“And Job Pray would seem to be the presiding
spirit,” returned the young soldier. “You parted
from him but now?”
“I trust, sir,” said the stranger gravely, “that
this is not a land, nor have we fallen on times when
and where an honest man dare not say that he
has spoken to whom he pleases.”
“Certainly, sir, it is not for me to prohibit the
intercourse,” returned Lionel. “You spoke of
our fathers; mine is well known to you, it would
seem, though to me you are a stranger.”
“And may be so yet a little longer,” said the
other, “though I think the time is at hand when
men will be known in their true characters; until
then, Major Lincoln, I bid you adieu.”
Without waiting for any reply, the stranger
took a different direction from that which Lionel
was pursuing, and walked away with the swiftness
of one who was pressed with urgent business.
Lionel soon ascended into the upper part of the
town, with the intention of going into Tremont-street,
to communicate his design to accompany
the expedition. It was now apparent to the young
man, that a rumour of the contemplated movement
of the troops was spreading secretly, but
swiftly, among the people. He passed several
groups of earnest and excited townsmen, conferring
together at the corners of the streets, from
some of whom he overheard the startling intelligence
that the neck, the only approach to the
place by land, was closed by a line of sentinels;
encircling the peninsula in a manner to intercept
the communication with the adjacent country.
Still no indications of a military alarm could be
discovered, though, at times, a stifled hum, like the
notes of busy preparation, was borne along by the
damp breezes of the night, and mingled with
those sounds of a Spring evening, which increased
as he approached the skirts of the dwellings. In
Tremont-street Lionel found no appearance of
that excitement which was spreading so rapidly in
the old and lower parts of the town. He passed into
his own room without meeting any of the family,
and having completed his brief arrangements,
he was descending to inquire for his kinswomen,
when the voice of Mrs. Lechmere, proceeding
from a small apartment, appropriated to her own
use, arrested his steps. Anxious to take leave in
person, he approached the half-open door, and
would have asked permission to enter, had not his
eye rested on the person of Abigail Pray, who was
in earnest conference with the mistress of the
mansion.
“A man aged, and poor, say you?” observed
Mrs. Lechmere, at that instant.
“And one that seems to know all,” interrupted
Abigail, glancing her eyes about with an expression
of superstitious terror.
“All!” echoed Mrs. Lechmere, her lip trembling
more with apprehension than age; “and
he arrived with Major Lincoln, say you?”
“In the same ship; and it seems that heaven
has ordained that he shall dwell with me in my
poverty, as a punishment for my great sins!”
“But why do you tolerate his presence, if it be
irksome,” said Mrs. Lechmere; “you are at least
the mistress of your own dwelling.”
“It has pleased God that my home shall be the
He has the same right to live in the warehouse
that I have.”
“You have the rights of a woman, and of first
possession,” said Mrs. Lechmere, with that unyielding
severity of manner that Lionel had often
observed before; “I would turn him into the
street, like a dog.”
“Into the street!” repeated Abigail, again
looking about her in secret terror; “speak lower,
madam Lechmere, for the love of heaven—I dare
not even look at him—he reminds me of all I have
ever known, and of all the evil I have ever done, by
his scorching eye—and yet I cannot tell why—and
then Job worships him as a god, and if I should
offend him, he could easily worm from the child
all that you and I wish so much—”
“How!” exclaimed Mrs. Lechmere, in a voice
husky with horror, “have you been so base as to
make a confident of that fool!”
“That fool is the child of my bosom,” said
Abigail, raising her hands, as if imploring pardon
for the indiscretion.—“Ah! madam Lechmere,
you who are rich, and great, and happy, and
have such a sweet and sensible grandchild, cannot
know how to love one like Job; but when
the heart is loaded and heavy, it throws its burden
on any that will bear it; and Job is my child,
though he is but little better than an ideot!”
It was by no trifling exertion of his breeding
that Lionel was enabled to profit by the inability
of Mrs. Lechmere to reply, and to turn away
from the spot, and cease to listen to a conversation
that was not intended for his ear. He
reached the parlour, and threw himself on one
of its settees before he was conscious that he was
no longer alone or unobserved.
“What! Major Lincoln returned from his
his teeth!” exclaimed the playful voice of Cecil
Dynevor, who, unheeded, was in possession of the
opposite seat, when he entered the room.
Lionel started, and rubbed his forehead, like a
man awaking from a dream, as he answered—
“Yes, a bandit, or any other opprobrious name
you please; I deserve them all.”
“Surely,” said Cecil, turning pale, “none
other dare use such language of Major Lincoln,
and he does it unjustly!”
“What foolish nonsense have I uttered, Miss
Dynevor?” cried Lionel, recovering his recollection;
“I was lost in thought, and heard your
language without comprehending its meaning.”
“Still you are armed; a sword is not a usual
instrument at your side, and now you bear even
pistols!”
“Yes,” returned the young soldier, laying aside
his dangerous implements; “yes, I am about to
march as a volunteer, with a party that go into
the country to-night, and I take these because I
would affect something very warlike, though you
well know how peaceably I am disposed.”
“March into the country—and in the dead of
night!” said Cecil, catching her breath, and turning
pale—“And does Lionel Lincoln volunteer
on such a duty?”
“I volunteer to perform no other duty than to
be a witness of whatever may occur—you are not
more ignorant yourself of the nature of the expedition
than I am at this moment.”
“Then remain where you are,” said Cecil,
firmly, “and enlist not in an enterprise that may
be unholy in its purposes, and disgraceful in its
results.”
“Of the former I am innocent, whatever they
may be, nor will they be affected by my presence
accompanying the grenadiers and light-infantry
of this army, Miss Dynevor, though it should be
against treble their numbers of chosen troops.”
“Then it would seem,” said Agnes Danforth,
speaking as she entered the room, “that our
friend Mercury, that feather of a man, captain Polwarth,
is to be one of these night depredators!
heaven shield the hen-roosts!”
“You have then heard the intelligence, Agnes?”
“I have heard that men are arming, and that
boats are rowing round the town in all directions,
and that it is forbidden to enter or quit Boston,
as we were wont to do, Cecil, at such hours and
in such fashion as suited us plain Americans,”
said Agnes, endeavouring to conceal her deep
vexation in affected irony—“God only can tell
in what all these oppressive measures will end.”
“If you go only as a curious spectator of the
depredations of the troops,” continued Cecil,
“are you not wrong to lend them even the sanction
of your name?”
“I have yet to learn that there will be depredations.”
“You forget, Cecil,” interrupted Agnes Danforth,
scornfully, “that Major Lincoln did not arrive
until after the renowned march from Roxbury
to Dorchester! Then the troops gathered
their laurels under the face of the sun; but it
is easy to conceive how much more glorious
their achievements will become when darkness
shall conceal their blushes!”
The blood rushed across the fine features of
Lionel, but he laughed as he arose to depart,
saying—
“You compel me to beat the retreat, my spirited
coz. If I have my usual fortune in this
forage, your larder, however, shall be the better
to lay aside the scarlet to dare to approach
with a more peaceable offering. But here I may
make an approach to something like amity.”
He took the hand of Cecil, who frankly met
his offer, and insensibly suffered herself to be led
to the door of the building while he continued
speaking.
“I would, Lincoln, that you were not to go,”
she said, when they stopped on the threshold—
“it is not required of you as a soldier; and as a
man your own feelings should teach you to be
tender of your countrymen.”
“It is as a man that I go, Cecil,” he answered;
“I have motives that you cannot suspect.”
“And is your absence to be long?”
“If not for days, my object will be unaccomplished;”
but he added, pressing her hand gently,
“you cannot doubt my willingness to return when
occasion may offer.”
“Go, then,” said Cecil, hastily, and perhaps
unconsciously extricating herself—“go, if you
have secret reasons for your conduct; but remember
that the acts of every officer of your rank are
keenly noted.”
“Do you then distrust me, Cecil!”
“No—no—I distrust no one, Major Lincoln—
go—go—and—and—we shall see you, Lionel,
the instant you return.”
He had not time to reply, for she glided into
the building so rapidly as to give the young man
an opportunity only to observe, that instead of
rejoining her cousin, her light form passed up the
great stairs with the swiftness and grace of a fairy.
| CHAPTER VIII. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston | |