 | CHAPTER XVI. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
“And nights o' sleepless pain!
“Thou golden time o' youthful prime,
“Why com'st thou not again.”
Burns.
The stillness that succeeded this unexpected
annunciation was like the cold silence of those
who slumbered on every side of them. Lionel
recoiled, a pace, in horror; then imitating the
action of the old man, he uncovered his head,
in pious reverence of the parent, whose form
floated dimly in his imagination, like the earliest
recollections of infancy, or the imperfect
fancies of some dream. When time was given
for these sudden emotions to subside, he turned
to Ralph, and said—
“And was it here that you would bring me, to
listen to the sorrows of my family?”
An expression of piteous auguish crossed the
features of the other, as he answered, in a voice
which was subdued to softness—
“Even here—here, in the presence of thy
mother's grave, shalt thou hear the tale!”
“Then let it be here!” said Lionel, whose
eye was already kindling with a wild and disordered
meaning, that curdled the blood of the
anxious Cecil, who watched its expression with
a woman's solicitude.—“Here, on this hallowed
due, if all thy previous intimations should be
just”—
“No, no, no—listen not—tarry not!” said Cecil,
clinging to his side in undisguised alarm—
“Lincoln, you are not equal to the scene!”
“I am equal to any thing, in such a cause.”
“Nay, Lionel, you overrate your powers!—
Think only of your safety, now; at another, and
happier moment you shall know all—yes—I—
Cecil—thy bride, thy wife, promise that all shall
be revealed”—
“Thou!”
“It is the descendant of the widow of John
Lechmere who speaks, and thy ears will not refuse
the sounds,” said Ralph, with a smile that
acted like a taunt on the awakened impulses of
the young man—“Go—thou art fitter for a bridal
than a church-yard!”
“I have told you that I am equal to any thing,”
sternly answered Lionel; “here will I sit, on
this humble tablet, to hear all that you can utter,
though the rebel legions encircle me to my
death!”
“What! dar'st brave the averted eye of one so
dear to thy heart!”
“All, or any thing,” exclaimed the excited
youth, “with so pious an object.”
“Bravely answered! and thy reward is nigh—
nay, look not on the syren, or thou wilt relent.”
“My wife,” said Lionel, extending his hand,
kindly, towards the shrinking form of Cecil.
“Thy mother!” interrupted Ralph, pointing
with his emaciated hand to the cold residence of
the dead.
Lionel sunk on the dilapidated grave-stone to
which he had just alluded, and gathering his coat
about him, he rested an arm upon his knee,
while its hand supported his quivering chin,
purpose. The old man smiled with his usual
ghastly expression, as he witnessed this proof of his
success, and he took a similar seat on the opposite
side of the grave, which seemed the focus of
their common interest. Here he dropped his
face between his hands, and appeared to muse
like one who was collecting his thoughts for the
coming emergency. During this short and impressive
pause, Lionel felt the trembling form of
Cecil drawing to his side, and before his aged
companion spoke, her unveiled and pallid countenance
was once more watching the changes of
his own features, in submissive, but anxious attention.
“Thou knowest already, Lionel Lincoln,”
commenced Ralph, slowly raising his body to an
upright attitude, “how, in past ages, thy family
sought these colonies, to find religious quiet, and
the peace of the just. And thou also knowest,
for often did we beguile the long watches
of the night in discoursing of these things, while
the never-tiring ocean was rolling its waters, unheeded
around, how Death came into its elder
branch, which still dwelt amid the luxury and
corruption of the English Court, and left thy
father the heir of all its riches and honours.”
“How much of this is unknown to the meanest
gossip in the province of Massachusetts-Bay!”
interrupted the impatient Lionel.
“But they do not know, that for years before
this accumulation of fortune actually occurred,
it was deemed to be inevitable by the decrees
of Providence; they do not know how much
more value the orphan son of the unprovided
soldier, found in the eyes of those even of his
own blood, by the expectation; nor do they know
how the worldly-minded Priscilla Lechmere,
and earth, to have seen that wealth, and those
honours, to which it was her greatest boast to
claim alliance descend in the line of her own
body.”
“But 'twas impossible! she was of the female
branch; neither had she a son!”
“Nothing seems impossible to those on whose
peace of mind the worm of ambition feeds—
thou knowest well she left a grand-child; had
not that child a mother!”
Lionel felt a painful conviction of the connection,
as the trembling object of these remarks
sunk her head in shame and sorrow on
his bosom, keenly alive to the justice of the
character drawn of her deceased relative, by
the mysterious being who had just spoken.
“God forbid that I, a Christian, and a gentleman,”
continued the old man, a little proudly,
“should utter a syllable to taint the spotless name
of one so free from blemish as she of whom I speak.
The sweet child who clings to thee, in dread,
Lionel, was not more pure and innocent than she
who bore her. And long before ambition had
wove its toils for the miserable Priscilla, the heart
of her daughter was the property of the gallant
and honourable Englishman, to whom in later
years she was wedded.”
As Cecil heard this soothing commendation
of her more immediate parents, she again raised
her face into the light of the moon, and remained,
where she was already kneeling, at the side
of Lionel, no longer an uneasy, but a deeply
interested listener to what followed.
“As the wishes of my unhappy aunt were not
realized,” said Major Lincoln, “in what manner
could they affect the fortunes of my father?”
“Thou shalt hear. In the same dwelling lived
another, even fairer, and, to the eye, as pure
as the daughter of Priscilla. She was the relative,
the god-child, and the ward of that miserable
woman. The beauty, and seeming virtues of this
apparent angel in human form, caught the young
eye of thy father, and in defiance of arts and
schemes, before the long-expected title and fortune
came, they were wedded, and thou wert
born, Lionel, to render the boon of Fate doubly
welcome.”
“And then”—
And then thy father hastened to the land of
his ancestors, to claim his own, and to prepare the
way for the reception of yourself, and his beloved
Priscilla—for then there were two Pris
cilla's; and now both sleep with the dead!
All having life and nature, can claim the quiet of
the grave, but I,” continued the old man, glancing
his hollow eye upward, with a look of hopeless
misery—“I, who have seen ages pass since
the blood of youth has been chilled, and generation
after generation swept away, must still linger
in the haunts of men! but 'tis to aid in the great
work which commences here, but which shall not
end until a continent be regenerate.”
Lionel suffered a minute to pass without a
question, in deference to this burst of feeling;
but soon making an impatient movement, it
drew the eyes of Ralph once more upon him,
and the old man continued—
“Month after month, for two long and tedious
years, did thy father linger in England, struggling
for his own. At length he prevailed. He
then hastened hither; but there was no wife—no
fond and loving Priscilla, like that tender flower
that reposes in thy bosom, to welcome his return
“I know it,” said Lionel, nearly choked by
his pious recollections—“she was dead.”
“She was more,” returned Ralph, in a voice
so deep that it sounded like one speaking from
the grave—“she was dishonoured!”
“'Tis false!”
“'Tis true; true as that holy gospel which
comes to men through the inspired ministers of
God!”
“'Tis false,” repeated Lionel, fiercely—
“blacker than the darkest thoughts of the foul
spirit of evil!”
“I say, rash boy, 'tis true! She died in giving
birth to the fruits of her infamy. When Priscilla
Lechmere met thy heart-stricken parent
with the damming tale, he read in her exulting
eye, the treason of her mind, and, like thee, he
dared to call heaven to witness, that thy mother
was defamed. But there was one known to him,
under circumstances that forbad the thoughts of
deceit, who swore—ay, took the blessed name
of Him who reads all hearts, for warranty of her
truth!—and she confirmed it.”
“The infamous seducer!” said Lionel, hoarsely,
his body turning unconsciously away from
Cecil—“does he yet live? Give him to my vengeance,
old man, and I will yet bless you for your
accursed history!”
“Lionel, Lionel,” said the soothing voice of
his bride, “do you credit him?”
“Credit him!” said Ralph, with a horrid, inward
laugh, as if he would deride the idea of incredulity;
“all this must he believe, and more!
Once again, weak girl, did thy grandmother throw
out her lures for the wealthy baronet, and when
he would not become her son, then did she league
with the spirits of hell to compass his ruin. Revenge
father was the victim!”
“Say on!” cried Lionel, nearly ceasing to
breathe in the intensity of his interest.
“The blow had cut him to the heart, and for a
time, his reason was crushed beneath its weight.
Yet 'twas but for an hour, compared to the eternity
a man is doomed to live! They profited by
the temporary derangement, and when his wandering
faculties were lulled to quiet, he found
himself the tenant of a mad-house, where, for
twenty long years, was he herded with the defaced
images of his maker, by the arts of the base
widow of John Lechmere.”
“Can this be true! Can this be true!” cried
Lionel, clasping his hands wildly, and springing
to his feet, with a violence that cast the tender
form that still clung to him, aside, like a worthless
toy—“Can this be proved? How knowest
thou these facts?”
The calm, but melancholy smile that was wont
to light the wan features of the old man, when
he alluded to his own existence, was once more
visible, as he answered—
“There is but little hid from the knowledge
acquired by length of days; besides, have I not
secret means of intelligence that are unknown to
thee! Remember what, in our frequent interviews,
I have revealed; recall the death-bed scene of
Priscilla Lechmere, and ask thyself if there be not
truth in thy aged friend!”
“Give me all! hold not back a title of thy
accursed tale—give me all—or take back each
syllable thou hast uttered.”
“Thou shalt have all thou askest, Lionel Lincoln,
and more,” returned Ralph, throwing into
his manner and voice its utmost powers of solemnity
and persuasion—“provided thou wilt swear
which an innocent and unoffending man can be
levelled with the beasts of the field, and be made
to rave even at his maker, in the hitterness of his
sufferings.”
“More than that—ten thousand times more
than that will I swear—I will league with this
rebellion”—
“Lionel, Lionel—what is't you do!” interrupted
the heart-stricken Cecil.
But her voice was stilled by loud and busy
cries, which broke out of the village, above
the hum of revelry, and was instantly succeeded
by the trampling of footsteps, as men rushed over
the frozen ground, apparently by hundreds, and
with headlong rapidity. Ralph, who was not less
quick to hear these sounds than the timid bride,
glided from the grave, and approached the high-way,
whither he was slowly followed by his
companions; Lionel utterly indifferent whither he
proceeded, and Cecil trembling in every limb,
with terror for the safety of him who so little
regarded his own danger.
“They are abroad, and think to find an enemy,”
said the old man, raising his hand with a
gesture to command attention; “but he has
sworn to join their standards, and gladly will
they receive any of his name and family!”
“No, no—he has pledged himself to no dishonour,”
cried Cecil—“Fly, Lincoln, while you
are free, and leave me to meet the pursuers—
they will respect my weakness.”
Fortunately the allusion to herself awakened
Lionel from the dull forgetfulness into which his
faculties had fallen. Encircling her slight figure
with his arm, he turned swiftly from the spot,
saying, as he urged her forward—
“Old man, when this precious charge is in
safety, thy truth or falsehood shall be proved.”
But Ralph, whose unincumbered person, and
iron frame, which seemed to mock the ravages
of time, gave a vast superiority over the impeded
progress of the other, moved swiftly ahead,
waving his hand on high, as if to indicate his intention
to join in the flight, while he led the way
into the fields adjacent to the church-yard they
had quitted.
The noise of the pursuers soon became more
distinct, and in the intervals of the distant cannonade,
the cries and directions of those who conducted
the chase were distinctly audible. Notwithstanding
the vigorous arm of her supporter,
Cecil was soon sensible that her delicate frame was
unequal to continue the exertions necessary to insure
their safety. They had entered another road,
which lay at no great distance from the first,
when she paused, and reluctantly declared her
inability to proceed.
“Then, here will we await our captors,” said
Lionel, with forced composure—“let the rebels
beware how they abuse their slight advantage!”
The words were scarcely uttered, when a cart,
drawn by a double team, turned an angle in the
highway, near them, and its driver appeared
within a few feet of the spot where they stood.
He was a man far advanced in years, but still
wielded his long goad with a dexterity which
had been imparted by the practice of more than
half a century. The sight of this man, alone,
and removed from immediate aid, suggested a
desperate thought for self-preservation to Lionel.
Quitting the side of his exhausted companion, he
advanced upon him with an air so fierce that it
might have created alarm in one who had the
smallest reason to apprehend any danger.
“Whither go you with that cart,” sternly demanded
the young man, on the instant.
“To the point,” was the ready answer; “yes,
yes—old and young—big and little—men and cre'turs—four-wheels
and two-wheels—every thing
goes to the point to-night, as you can guess, fri'nd!
Why,” he continued, dropping one end of his
goad on the ground, and supporting himself by
grasping it with both his hands—“I was eighty-three
the fourteenth of the last March, and I hope,
God willing, that when the next birth-day comes,
there wont be a red coat left in the town of Boston.
To my notion, friend, they have held the
place long enough, and it's time to quit. My
boys are in the camp, soldiering a turn—the old
woman has been as busy as a bee, sin' sun-down,
helping me to load-up what you see, and I am
carrying it over to Dorchester, and not a farthing
shall it ever cost the Congress!”
“And you are going to Dorchester-neck with
your bundles of hay!” said Lionel, eyeing both
him and his passing team, in hesitation whether
to attempt violence on one so infirm and helpless.
“Anan! you must speak up, soldier-fashion,
as you did at first, for I am a little deaf,” returned
the carter. “Yes, yes, they spared me in
the press, for they said I had done enough; but
I say a man has never done enough for his own
country, when any thing is left to be done. I'm
told they are carrying over fashines, as they call
'em, and pressed-hay, for their forts.—As hay is
more in my fashion than any other fashion, I've
bundled up a stout pile on't here, and if that wont
do, why, let Washington come; he is welcome
to the barn, stacks and all!”
“While you are so liberal to the Congress, can
you help a female in distress, who would wish to
to walk?”
“With all my heart,” said the other, turning
round in quest of her whom he was desired to
assist—“I hope she is handy; for the night wears
on, and I shouldn't like to have the English send
a bullet at our people on Dorchester hills, before
my hay gets there to help stop it.”
“She shall not detain you an instant,” said
Lionel, springing to the place where Cecil stood,
partly concealed by the fence, and supporting
her to the side of the rude vehicle—“you shall
be amply rewarded for this service.”
“Reward! Perhaps she is the wife or daughter
of a soldier, in which case she should be drawn
in her coach and four, instead of a cart and double
team.”
“Yes, yes—you are right, she is both—the
wife of one, and the daughter of another soldier.”
“Ay! God bless her! I warrant-me old Put
was more than half-right, when he said the women
would stop the two ridgements, that the proud parliamenter
boasted could march through the colonies,
from Hampshire to Georgi'—well, fri'nds,
are ye situated?”
“Perfectly,” said Lionel, who had been preparing
seats for himself and Cecil among the bundles
of hay, and assisting his companion into her
place during the dialogue—“we will detain you
no longer.”
The carter, who was no less than the owner of
a hundred acres of good land in the vicinity, signified
his readiness, and sweeping through the air
with his goad, he brought his cattle to the proper
direction, and slowly moved on. During this
hurried scene, Ralph had continued hid by the
shadows of the fence. When the cart proceeded,
he waved his hand, and gliding across the
road, was soon lost to the eye in the misty distance,
a spectre vanishing in air.
In the mean time the pursuers had not been
idle. Voices were heard in different directions, and
dim forms were to be seen rushing through the
fields, by the aid of the deceptive light of the
moon. To add to the embarrassment of their
situation, Lionel found, when too late, that the
route to Dorchester lay directly through the
village of Cambridge. When he perceived they
were approaching the streets, he would have left
the cart, had not the experiment been too dangerous,
in the midst of the disturbed soldiery,
who now flew by on every side of them. In such a
strait, his safest course was to continue motionless
and silent, secreting his own form, and that of
Cecil, as much as possible, among the bundles of
hay. Contrary to all the just expectations which
the impatient patriotism of the old yeoman had
excited, instead of driving steadily through the
place, he turned his cattle a little from the direct
route, and stopped in front of the very inn, where
Cecil had, so lately, been conducted by her guide
from the point.
Here the same noisy and thoughtless revelry existed
as before. The arrival of such an`equipage,
at once drew a crowd to the spot, and the uneasy
pair on the top of the load, became unwilling listeners
to the conversation.
“What, old one, hard at it for Congress!”
cried a man, approaching with a mug in his hand;
“come, wet your throat, my venerable father of
Liberty, for you are too old to be a son!”
“Yes, yes,” answered the exulting farmer,
“I am father and son, too! I have four boys in
camp, and seven grand'uns, in the bargain; and
that would be eleven good triggers in one family,
if five good muskets had so many locks—but the
barrel atween them, howsomever; and Aaron
the boy, carries as good a horse-pistol, I calculate,
as any there is going in the Bay! But what an uneasy
time you have on't to-night! There's more
powder wasted in mocking thunder, than would
fight old Bunker over again, at `white o' the eye'
distance!”
“'Tis the way of war, old man; and we want to
keep the reg'lars from looking at Dorchester.”
“If they did, they couldn't see far to-night,
But, now do tell me; I am an old man, and have
a grain of cur'osity in the flesh; my woman says
that Howe casts out his carcasses at you; which I
hold to be an irreligious deception?”
“As true as the gospel.”
“Well, there is no calculating on the wastefulness
of an ungodly spirit!” said the worthy
yeoman, shaking his head—“I could believe any
wickedness of him but that! As cre'turs must
be getting scarce in the town, I conclude he makes
use of his own slain?”
“Certain,” answered the soldier, winking at
his companions—“Breed's hill has kept him in
ammunition all winter.”
“'Tis awful, awful! to see a fellow-cre'tur
flying through the air, after the spirit has departed
to judgment! War is a dreadful calling; but,
then, what is a man without liberty!”
“Hark ye, old gentleman, talking of flying,
have you seen any thing of two men and a woman,
flying up the road as you came in?”
“Anan! I'm a little hard o'hearing—women,
too! do they shoot their Jezebels into our camp!
There is no wickedness the king's ministers wont
attempt to circumvent our weak naturs!”
“Did you see two men and a woman, running
fellow in his ear.
“Two! did you say two?” asked the yeoman,
turning his head a little on one side, in an attitude
of sagacious musing.
“Yes, two men.”
“No, I didn't see two. Running out of town,
did you say?”
“Ay, running, as if the devil was after them.”
“No; I didn't see two; nor any body running
away—it's a sartain sight of guilt to run away—
is there any reward offered?” said the old man,
suddenly interrupting himself, and again communing
with his own thoughts.
“Not yet—they've just escaped.”
“The surest way to catch a thief is to offer a
smart reward—no—I didn't see two men—you
are sartain there was two?”
“Push on with that cart! drive on, drive on,”
cried a mounted officer of the quarter-master's
department, who came scouring through the street,
at that moment, awakening all the slumbering ideas
of haste, which the old farmer had suffered to lie
dormant so long. Once more flourishing his goad,
he put his team in motion, wishing the revellers
goodnight as he proceeded. It was, however,
long after he had left the village, and crossed the
Charles, before he ceased to make frequent and
sudden halts in the highway, as if doubtful whether
to continue his route, or to return. At length
he stopped the cart, and clambering up on the
hay, he took a seat, where with one eye he could
regulate his cattle, and with the other examine
his companions. This investigation continued another
hour, neither party uttering a syllable, when
the teamster appeared satisfied that his suspicions
were unjust, and abandoned them. Perhaps the
difficulties of the road assisted in dissipating his
doubts, for as they proceeded, return carts were
attention to his own team indispensable.
Lionel, whose gloomy thoughts had been chased
from his mind by the constant excitement of
the foregoing scenes, now felt relieved from
any immediate apprehensions. He whispered his
soothing hopes of a final escape to Cecil, and
folding her in his coat, to shield her from the
night-air, he was pleased to find, ere long, by her
gentle breathing, that, overcome by fatigue, she
was slumbering in forgetfulness on his bosom.
Midnight had long passed when they came in
sight of the eminences beyond Dorchester-neck.
Cecil had awoke, and Lionel was already devising
some plausible excuse for quitting the cart, without
reviving the suspicions of the teamster. At
length a favourable spot occurred, where they
were alone, and the formation of the ground was
adapted to such a purpose. Lionel was on the point
of speaking, when the cattle stopped, and Ralph
suddenly appeared in the highway, at their heads.
“Make room, friend, for the oxen,” said the
farmer—“dumb beasts wont pass in the face of
man.”
“Alight,” said Ralph, seconding his words
with a wide sweep of his arm towards the fields.
Lionel quickly obeyed, and by the time the
driver had descended also, the whole party stood
together in the road.
“You have conferred a greater obligation than
you are aware of,” said Lionel to the driver.
“Here are five guineas.”
“For what? for riding on a load of hay a few
miles!—no, no—kindness is no such boughten article
in the Bay, that a man need pay for it! but,
friend, money seems plenty with you, for these
difficult days!”
“Then thanks, a thousand times—I can stay
to offer you no more.”
He was yet speaking, when, obedient to an impatient
gesture from Ralph, he lifted Cecil over
the fence, and in a moment they disappeared
from the eyes of the astonished farmer.
“Halloo, friend,” cried the worthy advocate
for his country, running after them as fast as old
age would allow—“were there three of you, when
I took ye up?”
The fugitives heard the call of the simple
and garrulous old man, but, as will easily be
imagined, did not deem it prudent to stop and
discuss the point in question between them. Before
they had gone far, the furious cry of, “take
care of that team!” with the rattling of wheels,
announced that their pursuer was recalled to his
duty, by an arrival of empty wagons; and before
the distance rendered sounds unintelligible, they
heard the noisy explanation, which their late
companion was giving to the others, of the whole
transaction. They were not, however, pursued;
the teamsters having more pressing objects
in view than the detection of thieves, or even of
pocketing a reward.
Ralph led his companions, after a brief explanation,
by a long and circuitous path, to the
shores of the bay. Here they found, hid in the
rushes of a shallow inlet, a small boat, that Lionel
recognised as the little vessel in which Job Pray
was wont to pursue his usual avocation of a fisherman.
Entering it without delay, he seized the
oars, and aided by a flowing tide, he industriously
urged it towards the distant spires of Boston.
The parting shades of the night were yet struggling
with the advance of day, when a powerful
flash of light illuminated the hazy horizon, and
the roar of cannon, which had ceased towards
morning, was again heard. But this time the
sounds came from the water, and a cloud rose
above the smoking harbour, announcing that the
sudden cannonade induced Lionel to steer his
boat between the islands; for the castle, and
southern batteries of the town, were all soon united
in pouring out their vengeance on the labourers,
who still occupied the heights of Dorchester.
As the little vessel glided by a tall frigate, Cecil saw
the boy who had been her first escort in the wanderings
of the preceding night, standing on its
taffrail, rubbing his eyes with wonder, and staring
at those hills, whose possession he had prophesied
would lead to such bloody results. In short,
while he laboured at the oars, Lionel witnessed
the opening scene of Breed's acted anew, as
battery after battery, and ship after ship, brought
their guns to bear on the hardy countrymen
who had, once more, hastened a crisis by their
daring enterprise. Their boat passed unheeded,
in the excitement and bustle of the moment,
and the mists of the morning had not yet dissipated,
when it shot by the wharves of Boston,
and turning into the narrow entrance of the town-dock,
it touched the land, near the warehouse,
where it had so often been moored, in more peaceable
times, by its simple master.
| CHAPTER XVI. Lionel Lincoln, or, The leaguer of Boston | |