 | CHAPTER XI. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
“Fluel.—Is it not lawful, an' please your majesty,
“To tell how many is killed.”
King Henry V.
While a strong party of the royal troops
took post on the height which commanded the
approach to their position, the remainder penetrated
deeper into the peninsula, or were transported
by the boats of the fleet to the town of
Boston. Lionel and Polwarth passed the strait
with the first division of the wounded, the former
having no duty to detain him any longer with
the detachment, and the latter stoutly maintaining
that his corporeal sufferings gave him
an undoubted claim to include his case among
the casualties of the day. Perhaps no officer
in the army of the king felt less chagrin at the
result of this inroad than Major Lincoln; for
notwithstanding his attachment to his Prince,
and adopted country, he was keenly sensitive on
the subject of the reputation of his real countrymen;
a sentiment that is honourable to our nature,
and which never deserts any that do not become
disloyal to its purest and noblest impulses. Even
while he regretted the price at which his comrades
had been taught to appreciate the characters
of those whose long and mild forbearance
that the eyes of the more aged would
now be opened to the truth, and that the mouths
of the young and thoughtless were to be for ever
closed in shame. Although the actual losses of the
two detachments were probably concealed from
motives of policy, it was early acknowledged to
amount to about one-sixth of the whole number
employed.
On the wharf, Lionel and Polwarth separated;
the latter agreeing to repair speedily to the private
quarters of his friend, where he promised
himself a solace for the compulsory abstinence
and privations of his long march, and the former
taking his way towards Tremont-street, with
a view to allay the uneasiness which the secret and
flattering whisperings of hope taught him to believe
his fair young kinswomen would feel in his behalf.
At every corner he encountered groups of earnest
townsmen, listening with greedy ears to the particulars
of the contest, a few walking away dejected
at the spirit exhibited by that country they
had villified to its oppressors, but most of them
regarding the passing form of one whose disordered
dress announced his participation in the
affair, with glances of stern satisfaction. As Lionel
tapped at the door of Mrs. Lechmere, he forgot
his fatigue; and when it opened, and he beheld
Cecil standing in the hall, with every lineament
of her fine countenance expressing the
power of her emotions, he no longer remembered
those trying dangers he had so lately escaped.
“Lionel!” exclaimed the young lady, clasping
her hands with joy—“himself, and unhurt!” The
blood rushed from her heart across her face to
her forehead, and burying her shame in her hands,
she burst into a flood of tears, and fled his presence.
Agnes Danforth received him with undisguised
pleasure, nor would she indulge in a single question
to appease her burning curiosity, until thoroughly
assured of his perfect safety. Then, indeed,
she remarked, with a smile of triumph seated on
her arch features—
“Your march has been well attended, Major
Lincoln; from the upper windows I have seen
some of the honours which the good people of
the Massachusetts have paid to their visiters.”
“On my soul, if it were not for the dreadful
consequences which must follow, I rejoice as
well as yourself, in the events of the day,” said
Lincoln; “for a people are never certain of their
rights, until they are respected.”
“Tell me then all, cousin Lincoln, that I may
know how to boast of my parentage.”
The young man gave her a short, but distinct
and impartial account of all that had occurred,
to which his fair listener attended with undisguised
interest.
“Now, then,” she exclaimed, as he ended, “there
is an end for ever of those biting taunts that have
so long insulted our ears! But you know,” she
added, with a slight blush, and a smile most comically
arch, “I had a double stake in the fortunes
of the day—my country and my true love!”
“Oh! be at ease; your worshipper has returned,
whole in body, and suffering in mind only
through your cruelty—he performed the route
with wonderful address, and really showed himself
a soldier in danger.”
“Nay, Major Lincoln,” returned Agnes, still
blushing, though she laughed, “you do not mean
to insinuate that Peter Polwarth has walked forty
miles between the rising and setting of the sun.”
“Between two sun-sets he has done the deed,
if you except a trifling promenade à cheval, on
my own steed, whom Jonathan compelled me to
the possession, too, in spite of dangers of every
kind.”
“Really,” exclaimed the wilful girl, clasping
her hands in affected astonishment, though Lionel
thought he could read inward satisfaction at
his intelligence—“the prodigies of the man exceed
belief! one wants the faith of father Abraham
to credit such marvels! though, after the repulse
of two thousand British soldiers by a body
of husbandmen, I am prepared for an exceeding
use of my credulity.”
“The moment is then auspicious for my friend,”
whispered Lionel, rising to follow the flitting
form of Cecil Dynevor, which he saw gliding
into the opposite room, as Polwarth himself entered
the apartment—“credulity is said to be the
great weakness of your sex, and I must leave you
a moment exposed to the failing, and that, too,
in the dangerous company of the subject of our
discourse.”
“Now would you give half your hopes of promotion,
and all your hopes of a war, captain Polwarth,
to know in what manner your character
has been treated in your absence,” cried Agnes,
blushing slightly. “I shall not, however, satisfy
the cravings of your curiosity, but let it serve
as a stimulant to better deeds than have employed
you since we met last.”
“I trust Lincoln has done justice to my service,”
returned the good-humoured captain, “and
that he has not neglected to mention the manner
in which I rescued his steed from the rebels.”
“The what, sir,” interrupted Agnes, with a
frown—“how did you style the good people of
Massachusetts-Bay?”
“I should have said the excited dwellers in the
land, I believe. Ah! Miss Agnes, I have suffered
on your behalf—”
“On my behalf! your words require explanation,
captain Polwarth.”
“'Tis impossible,” returned the captain—
“there are feelings and actions connected with
the heart that will admit of no explanation. All
I know is, that I have suffered unutterably on
your account, to-day; and what is unutterable is
in a great degree inexplicable.”
“I shall set this down for what I understand
occurs regularly in a certain description of tête-à-têtes
—the expression of an unutterable thing!
Surely, Major Lincoln had some reason to believe
he left me at the mercy of my credulity!”
“You slander your own character, fair Agnes,”
said Polwarth, endeavouring to look piteously;
“you are neither merciful nor credulous, or you
would long since have believed my tale, and
taken pity on my misery.”
“Is not sympathy a sort—a kind—in short,
is not sympathy a dreadful symptom in a certain
disease?” asked Agnes, resting her eyes on the
floor, and affecting a girlish embarrassment.
“Who can gainsay it!” cried the captain;
“'tis the infallible way for a young lady to discover
the bent of her inclinations. Thousands have
lived in ignorance of their own affections until
their sympathies have been awakened. But what
means the question, my fair tormentor? May I
dare to flatter myself that you at length feel
for my pains!”
“I am sadly afraid 'tis but too true, Polwarth,”
returned Agnes, shaking her head, and continuing
to look exceedingly grave.
Polwarth moved, with something like animation
again, nigher to the amused girl; and attempted
to take her hand, as he said—
“You restore me to life with your sweet acknowledgments—I
have lived for six months like
a dog under your frowns, but one kind word acts
like a healing balm, and restores me to myself
again!”
“Then my sympathy is evaporated!” returned
Agnes. “Throughout this long and anxious
day have I fancied myself older than my good,
staid, great-aunt; and whenever certain thoughts
have crossed my mind, I have even imagined a
thousand of the ailings of age had encircled me—
rheumatisms, gouts, asthmas, and numberless
other aches and pains, exceedingly unbecoming to
a young lady of nineteen. But you have enlightened
me, and given vast relief to my apprehensions,
by explaining it to be no more than sympathy.
You see, Polwarth, what a wife you will
obtain, should I ever, in a weak moment, accept
you, for I have already sustained one-half your
burthens!”
“A man is not made to be in constant motion,
like the pendulum of that clock, Miss Danforth,
and yet feel no fatigue,” said Polwarth, more
vexed than he would permit himself to betray;
“yet I flatter myself there is no officer in the
light-infantry—you understand me to say the
light-infantry—who has passed over more ground
within four-and-twenty hours, than the man who
hastens, notwithstanding his exploits, to throw
himself at your feet, even before he thinks of his
ordinary rest.”
“Captain Polwarth,” said Agnes, rising, “for
the compliment, if compliment it be, I thank you;
but,” she added, losing her affected gravity in a
strong natural feeling that shone in her dark eye,
and illuminated the whole of her fine countenance,
as she laid her hand impressively on her heart—
“the man who will supplant the feelings which
my feet, as you call it, from a field of battle,
where he has been contending with my kinsmen,
and helping to enslave my country. You will
excuse me, sir, but as Major Lincoln is at home
here, permit me, for a few minutes, to leave you
to his hospitality.”
She withdrew as Lionel re-entered, passing
him on the threshold.
“I would rather be a leader in a stage-coach,
or a running footman, than in love!” cried Polwarth—“'tis
a dog's life, Leo, and this girl treats
me like a cart-horse! But what an eye she has!
I could have lighted my segar by it—my heart is
a heap of cinders. Why, Leo, what aileth thee!
throughout the whole of this damnable day, I
have not before seen thee bear such a troubled
look!”
“Let us withdraw to my private quarters,”
muttered the young man, whose aspect and air expressed
the marks of extreme disturbance—“'tis
time to repair the disasters of our march.”
“All that has been already looked to,” said
Polwarth, rising and limping, with sundry grimaces,
in the best manner he was able, in a vain
effort to equal the rapid strides of his companion.
“My first business on leaving you was to borrow
a conveyance of a friend, in which I rode to your
place; and my next was to write to little Jimmy
Craig, to offer an exchange of my company for
his—for from this hour henceforth I denounce all
light-infantry movements, and shall take the first
opportunity to get back again into the dragoons,
as soon as I have effected which, major Lincoln,
I propose to treat with you for the purchase of
that horse—after that duty was performed, for, if
self-preservation be commendable, it became a
order that nothing might be forgotten; after
which, like yourself Lionel, I hastened to the
feet of my mistress—Ah! Major Lincoln, you are
a happy man; for you, there is no reception but
smiles—and charms so”—
“Talk not to me sir, of smiles,” interrupted
Lionel, impatiently, “nor of the charms of woman.
They are all alike, capricious and unaccountable.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed Polwarth, staring
about him in wonder; “there is then favour for
none, in this place, who battle for the King!
There is a strange connexion between Cupid and
Mars, love and war; for here did I, after fighting
all day like a Saracen, a Turk, Jenghis Khan, or, in
short, any thing but a good Christian, come with
full intent to make a serious offer of my hand,
commission, and of Polwarth-Hall, to that treasonable
vixen, when she repulses me with a frown
and a sarcasm as biting as the salutation of a hungry
man. But what an eye the girl has, and
what a bloom, when she is a little more seasoned
than common! Then you, too, Lionel, have been
treated like a dog!”
“Like a fool, as I am,” said Lionel, pacing
haughtily over the ground at a rate that soon
threw his companion too far in the rear to admit
of further discourse until they reached the
place of their destination. Here, to the no small
surprise of both gentlemen, they found a company
collected that neither was prepared to
meet. At a side-table, sat M'Fuse, discussing,
with singular relish, some of the cold viands
of the previous night's repast, and washing
down his morsels with deep potations of the best
wine of his host. In one corner of the room,
Seth Sage was posted, with the appearance of
from which depended a long cord that might,
on emergency, be made to serve the purpose of a
halter. Opposite to the prisoner, for such in truth
he was, stood Job, imitating the example of the
Captain of Grenadiers, who now and then tossed
some fragment of his meal into the hat of the
simpleton. Meriton and several of the menials
of the establishment were in waiting.
“What have we here!” cried Lionel, regarding
the scene with a curious eye; “of what offence has
Mr. Sage been guilty, that he bears those bonds?”
“Of the small crimes of tr'ason and homicide,”
returned M'Fuse, “if shooting at a man,
with a hearty mind to kill him, can make a
murder.”
“It can't,” said Seth, raising his eyes from the
floor, where he had hitherto kept them in demure
silence; “a man must kill with wicked intent
to commit murder”—
“Hear to the blackguard, datailing the law as
if he were my Lord Chief Justice of the King's
Bench!” interrupted the grenadier; “and what
was your own wicked intention, ye skulking vagabond,
but to kill me! I'll have you tried and
hung for the same act.”
“It's ag'in reason to believe that any jury will
convict one man for the murder of another that
a'nt dead,” said Seth—“there's no jury to be
found in the Bay-colony, to do it.”
“Bay-colony! ye murdering thief and rebel!”
cried the Captain; “I'll have ye transported to
England; ye shall be both transported and hung.
By the Lord, I'll carry ye back to Ireland with
me, and I'll hang ye up in the green Island itself,
and bury ye, in the heart of winter, in a bog”—
“But what is the offence,” demanded Lionel,
“that calls forth these severe threats?”
“The scoundrel has been out”—
“Out!”
“Ay, out—damn it, sir, has not the
whole country been like so many bees in search
of a hive! Is your memory so short that ye
forget, already, Major Lincoln, the tramp the
blackguards have given you over hill and dale,
through thick and thin?”
“And was Mr. Sage, then, found among our
enemies to day?”—
“Didn't I see him pull trigger on my own
stature, three times within as many minutes!”
returned the angry captain; “and didn't he break
the handle of my sword? and have not I a bit of
lead he calls a buck-shot in my shoulder as a present
from the thief?”
“It's ag'in all law to call a man a thief,” said
Job, “unless you can prove it upon him; but it
an't ag'in law to go in and out of Boston as often
as you choose.”
“Do you hear the rascals! They know every
angle of the law as well, or better than I do myself,
who am the son of a Cork counsellor. I
dare to say, you were among them too, and
that ye deserve the gallows as well as your commendable
companion, there.”
“How is this!” said Lionel, turning quickly
away from Job, with a view to prevent a reply
that might endanger the safety of the changeling;
“did you not only mingle in this rebellion, Mr.
Sage, but also attempt the life of a gentleman
who may be said, almost, to be an inmate of
your own house?”
“I conclude,” returned Seth, “it's best not
to talk too much, seeing that no one can foretell
what may happen.”
“Hear to the cunning reprobate! he has not
the grace to acknowledge his own sins, like an
honest man,” interrupted M`Fase; “but I can
must know Major Lincoln, of being shot at like
noxious vermin, from morning till night, without
making some return to the compliments of those
gentlemen who are out on the hills; and I took
advantage of a turn, ye see, to double on a party
of the uncivilized demons; this lad, here, got
three good pulls at me, before we closed and
made an end of them with the steel, all but this
fellow, who having a becoming look for a gallows,
I brought him in, as you see, for an exchange,
intending to hang him the first favourable
opportunity.”
“If this be true we must give him into the
hands of the proper authorities,” said Lionel,
smiling at the confused account of the angry captain—“for
it remains to be seen yet what course
will be adopted with the prisoners in this singular
contest.”
“I should think nothing of the matter,” returned
M`Fuse, “if the reprobate had not tr'ated
me like a beast of the field, with his buck-shot,
and taking his aim each time, as though I had
been a mad-dog. Ye villain, do you call yourself
a man, and aim at a fellow-creature as
you would at a brute?”
“Why,” said Seth, sullenly, “when a man has
pretty much made up his mind to fight, I conclude
it's best to take aim, in order to save ammunition
and time.”
“You acknowledge the charge, then!” demanded
Lionel.
“As the major is a moderate man, and will
hear to reason, I will talk the matter over with
him rationally,” said Seth, disposing himself to
speak more to the purpose. “You see I had a
small call to Concurd early this morning”—
“Concord!” exclaimed Lionel—
“Yes, Concurd,” returned Seth, laying great
air of extreme innocence—“it lies here-away,
say twenty or one-and-twenty miles”—
“Damn your Concords and your miles too,”
cried Polwarth; “is there a man in the army
who can forget the deceitful place! Go on with
your defence, without talking to us of the distance,
who have measured the road by inches.”
“The captain is hasty and rash!” said the deliberate
prisoner—“but being there, I went out
of the town with some company that I happened
in with; and after a time we concluded to return—
and so, as we came to a bridge about a mile beyond
the place, we received considerable rough
treatment from some of the king's troops, who
were standing there—”
“What did they?”
“They fired at us, and killed two of our company,
besides other threatening doings. There
were some among us that took the matter up in
considerable earnest, and there was a sharp toss
about it for a few minutes; though finally the law
prevailed.”
“The law!”
“Certain—'tis ag'in all law, I believe the major
will own, to shoot peaceable men on the public
highway!”
“Proceed with your tale in your own way.”
“That is pretty much the whole of it,” said
Seth, warily. “The people rather took that,
and some other things that happened at Lexington,
to heart, and I suppose the major knows the
rest.”
“But what has all this to do with your attempt
to murder me, you hypocrite?” demanded
M`Fuse—“confess the whole, ye thief, that I
may hang you with an aisy conscience.”
“Enough,” said Lionel; “the man has acknowledge
sufficient already to justify us in transferring
taken to the main guard, and delivered as a prisoner
of this day.”
“I hope the major will look to the things,” said
Seth, who instantly prepared to depart, but stopped
on the threshold to speak—“I shall hold
him accountable for all.”
“Your property shall be protected, and I hope
your life may not be in jeopardy,” returned Lionel,
waving his hand for those who guarded him
to proceed. Seth turned, and left his own dwelling
with the same quiet air which had distinguished
him throughout the day; though there were
occasional flashes from his quick, dark eyes,
that looked like the glimmerings of a fading
fire. Notwithstanding the threatening denunciation
he had encountered, he left the house
with a perfect conviction, that if his case were
to be tried by those principles of justice which
every man in the Colony so well understood, it
would be found that both he and his fellows had
kept thoroughly on the windy side of the law.
During this singular and characteristic discourse,
Polwarth, with the solitary exception we
have recorded, had employed his time in forwarding
the preparations for the banquet.
As Seth and his train disappeared, Lionel
cast a furtive look at Job, who was a quiet
and apparently an undisturbed spectator of the
scene, and then turned his attention suddenly
to his guests, as if fearful the folly of the changeling
might betray his agency also in the deeds
of the day. The simplicity of the lad, however,
defeated the kind intentions of the major, for he
immediately observed, without the least indication
of fear—
“The king can't hang Seth Sage for firing
back, when the rake-helly soldiers began first.”
“Perhaps you were out too, master Solomon,”
cried M`Fuse, “amusing yourself at Concord,
with a small party of select friends!”
“Job didn't go any further than Lexington,”
returned the lad, “and he hasn't got any friend,
except old Nab.”
“The devil has possessed the minds of the
people!” continued the grenadier—“lawyers and
doctors—praists and sinners—old and young—
big and little, beset us in our march, and here is
a fool to be added to the number! I dare say
that fellow, now, has attempted murder in his
day too.”
“Job scorns such wickedness,” returned the
unmoved simpleton; “he only shot one granny,
and hit an officer in the arm.”
“D'ye hear that, Major Lincoln!” cried
M'Fuse, jumping from the seat, which, notwithstanding
the bitterness of his language, he had
hitherto perseveringly maintained; “d'ye hear
that shell of a man, that effigy, boasting of having
killed a grenadier!”
“Hold”—interrupted Lionel, arresting his excited
companion by the arm—“remember, we
are soldiers, and that the boy is not a responsible
being. No tribunal would ever sentence such an
unfortunate creature to a gibbet; and in general
he is as harmless as a babe—”
“The devil burn such babes—a pretty fellow
is he to kill a man of six feet! and with a ducking
gun I'll engage. I'll not hang the rascal, Major
Lincoln, since it is your particular wish—I'll only
have him buried alive.”
Job continued perfectly unmoved in his chair,
and the captain, ashamed of his resentment
against such unconscious imbecility, was soon
persuaded to abandon his intentions of revenge,
though he continued muttering his threats against
the provincials, and his denunciations against
much-needed repast was ended.
Polwarth having restored the equilibrium of
his system by a hearty meal, hobbled to his
bed, and M`Fuse, without any ceremony, took
possession of another of the apartments in the
tenement of Mr. Sage. The servants withdrew
to their own entertainment, and Lionel, who had
been sitting for the last half hour in melancholy
silence, now unexpectedly found himself alone
with the changeling. Job had waited for this
moment with exceeding patience, but when the
door closed on Meriton, who was the last to
retire, he made a movement that indicated some
communication of more than usual importance,
and succeeded in attracting the attention of his
companion.
“Foolish boy!” exclaimed Lionel, as he met
the unmeaning eye of the other, “did I not warn
you that wicked men might endanger your life!
how was it that I saw you in arms to-day, against
the troops?”
“How came the troops in arms ag'in Job?”
returned the changeling—“they needn't think to
wheel about the Bay-Province, clashing their
godless drums and trumpets, burning housen, and
shooting people, and find no stir about it!”
“Do you know that your life has been twice
forfeited within twelve hours, by your own confession;
once for murder, and again for treason
against your king? You have acknowledged killing
a man!”
“Yes,” said the lad, with undisturbed simplicity,
“Job shot the granny; but he didn't let the
people kill Major Lincoln.”
“True, true,” said Lionel, hastily—“I owe my
life to you, and that debt shall be cancelled at
every hazard. But why have you put yourself
what brings you here to-night?”
“Ralph told me to come; and if Ralph told
Job to go into the king's parlour, he would go.”
“Ralph!” exclaimed Lionel, stopping in his
hurried walk across the room, and where is he?”
“In the old ware-'us', and he has sent me to
tell you to come to him—and what Ralph says
must be done.”
“He here too! is the man crazed—would not
his fears teach him—”
“Fears!” interrupted Job, with singular disdain—“you
can't frighten Ralph! The grannies
couldn't frighten him, nor the light-infantry
couldn't hit him, though he eat nothing but
their smoke the whole day—Ralph's a proper
warrior!”
“And he waits me, you say, in the tenement
of your mother?”
“Job don't know what tenement means, but
he's in the old ware-'us'.”
“Come, then,” said Lionel, taking his hat,
“let us go to him—I must save him from the
effects of his own rashness, though it cost my
commission!”
He left the room while speaking, and the simpleton
followed close at his heels, well content
with having executed his mission without encountering
any greater difficulties.
| CHAPTER XI. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston | |