 | THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. The soldier's bride and other tales |  |
THE CAPTAIN'S LADY.
After an absence of several years from my native
city, I had lately the pleasure of paying it a visit;
and, having spent a few days with my friends, was
about to bid adieu, once more, to the goodly and
quiet streets of Philadelphia. The day had not yet
dawned, and I stood trembling at the door of the
stage-office, muffled in a great coat, while the driver
was securing my baggage. The streets were still
and tenantless, and not a foot seemed to be travelling
but my own. Every body slept, gentle and simple;
for sleep is a gentle and simple thing. The watchmen
slumbered; and the very lamps seemed to
have caught the infectious drowsiness. I felt that I
possessed at that moment a lordly pre-eminence
among my fellow citizens; for they were all torpid,
as dead to consciousness as swallows in the winter,
or mummies in a catacomb. I alone had sense,
knowledge, power, energy. The rest were all
were bottled away by Solomon, and cast into the
sea. I could release them from durance, in an instant;
I could discharge either of them from imprisonment,
or I could suffer the whole to remain
spell-bound until the appointed time for their enlargement.
Every thing slept; mayor, aldermen,
and councils, the civil and the military, learning,
and beauty, and eloquence, porters, dogs, and drays,
steam engines and patent machines, even the elements
reposed.
If it had not been so cold, I could have moralized
upon the death-like torpor that reigned over the
city. As it was, I could not help admiring that
wonderful regulation of nature, which thus periodically
suspends the vital powers of a whole
people. There is nothing so cheering as the bustle
of a crowd, nothing more awful than its repose.
When we behold the first, when we notice the vast
aggregate of human life so variously occupied, so
widely diffused, so powerful, and so buoyant, a
sensation is produced like that with which we gaze
at the ocean when agitated by a storm; a sense of
the utter inadequateness of human power to still
such a mass of troubled particles; but when sleep
strews her poppies, it is like the pouring of oil upon
the waves.
I had barely time to make this remark, when
two figures rapidly approached—two of Solomon's
genii escaped from duresse. Had not their outward
have fancied them a pair of malignant spirits, coming
to invite me to a meeting of conspirators, or a dance
of witches. It was a Quaker gentleman, with a
lady hanging on one arm, and a lantern on the
other, so that, although he carried double, his burthens
were both light. As soon as they reached
the spot where I stood, the pedestrian raised his
lantern to my face, and inspected it earnestly for a
moment. I began to fear that he was a police
officer, who, having picked up one candidate for the
treadmill, was seeking to find her a companion.
It was an unjust suspicion; for worthy Obadiah was
only taking a lecture on physiognomy, and, being
satisfied with the honesty of my lineaments, he
said; “Pray, friend, would it suit thee to take charge
of a lady?”
What a question! Seldom have my nerves received
so great a shock. Not that there is any thing
alarming or disagreeable in the proposition; but the
address was so sudden, the interrogatory so direet,
the subject matter so unexpected! “Take charge
of a lady,” quoth he! I had been for years a candidate
for this very honour. Never was there a
more willing soul on the round world. I had always
been ready to “take charge of a lady,” but had
never been happy enough to find one who was
willing to place herself under my protection; and
now, when I least expected it, came a fair volunteer,
with the sanction of a parent, to throw herself, as
where the pigs run about ready roasted, crying,
“Who'll eat me?” I thought, too, of Aladdin and
his wonderful lamp, and almost doubted whether I
had not touched some talisman, whose virtues had
called into my presence a substantial personification
of one of my day dreams. But there was
Obadiah, of whose mortality there could be no
mistake; and there was the lady's trunk—not an
imaginary trunk, but a most copious and ponderous
receptacle, ready to take its station socially beside
my own. What a prize for a travelling bachelor!
a lady ready booked, and bundled up, with her
trunk packed, and her passage paid! Alas! it is for
a season—after that, some happier wight will “take
charge of the lady,” and I may jog on in single
loneliness.
These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind,
during a pause in the Quaker's speech, and, before
I could frame a reply, he continued: “My daughter
has just heard of the illness of her husband, Captain
Johnson of the Riflemen, and wishes to get to
Baltimore to-day to join him. The ice has stopped
the steamboats, and she is obliged to go by land.”
I had the grace to recover from my fit of abstraction,
so far as to say, in good time, that “it would
afford me pleasure to render any service in my
power to Mrs. Johnson;” and I did so with great
sincerity, for every chivalrous feeling of my bosom
was enlisted in favour of a lady, young, sensitive,
of love to the chamber of an afflicted husband. I
felt proud of extending my protection to such a
pattern of connubial tenderness; and, offering my
hand to worthy Obadiah, I added, “I am obliged
to you, sir, for this mark of your confidence, and
will endeavour to render Mrs. Johnson's journey
safe, if not agreeable.”
A hearty “thank thee, friend, I judged as much
from thy appearance,” was all the reply, and the
stage being now ready, we stepped in, and drove off.
As the carriage rattled over the pavement, my
thoughts naturally reverted to my fair charge. Ah!
thought I, what a happy fellow is Captain Johnson
of the Rifle! What a prize has he drawn in the lottery
of life! How charming it must be to have such
a devoted wife! Here was I, a solitary bachelor,
doomed perhaps to eternal celibacy. Cheerless
indeed was my fate compared with his. Should I
fall sick, there was no delicate female to fly to my
beside; no, I might die, before a ministering angel
would come to me in such a shape. But, fortunate
Captain Johnson! no sooner is he placed on the
sick list, by the regimental surgeon, than his amiable
partner quits her paternal mansion, accepts the
protection of a stranger, risks her neck in a stage-coach,
and her health in the night air, and flies to
the relief of the invalid.
I wonder what is the matter with Captain Johnson,
continued I. Got the dengue perhaps, or the
Sickness is generally unwelcome, and
often an alarming visiter. It always brings the
doctor, with his long bill and loathsome drugs, and
it sometimes opens the door to the doctor's successor
in office, Death. But sickness, when it
calls home an affectionate wife, when it proves her
love and her courage, when its pangs are soothed
by the tender and skilful assiduity of a loving and
beloved friend, even sickness, under such circumstances,
must be welcome to that happy man,
Captain Johnson of the Rifle.
Poor fellow! perhaps he is very sick—dying, for
aught we know. Then the lady will be a widow,
and there will be a vacant captaincy in the Rifle
Regiment. Strange, that I should never have heard
of him before—I thought I knew all the officers.
What kind of a man can he be? The Rifle is a fine
regiment. They were dashing fellows in the last
war; chiefly from the West—all marksmen, who
could cut off a squirrel's head, or pick out the pupil
of a grenadier's eye. He was a backwoodsman, no
doubt; six feet six, with red whiskers, and an eagle
eye. His regimentals had caught the lady's fancy;
the sex loves any thing in uniform, perhaps because
they are the reverse of every thing that is uniform
themselves. The lady did well to get into the
Rifle Regiment; for she was evidently a sharpshooter,
and could pick off an officer, when so disposed.
What an eye she must have! A plague on
poaching here? Why sport his gray and black
among the pretty Quaker girls of Philadelphia?
Why could not the Rifle officers enlist their wives
elsewhere? Or why, if Philadelphia must be rifled
of its beauty—why had not I been Captain Johnson?
When a man begins to think upon a subject of
which he knows nothing, there is no end of it; for
his thoughts not having a plain road to travel, will
shoot off into every by path. Thus it was, that
my conjectures wandered from the captain to his
lady, and from the lady to her father. What an
honest, confiding soul, must worthy Obadiah be,
continued I, to myself, to place a daughter, so estimable,
perhaps his only child, under the protection
of an entire stranger! He is doubtless a
physiognomist. I carry that best of all letters of
introduction, a good appearance. Perhaps he is a
phrenologist; but that cannot be, for my bumps,
be they good or evil, are all muffled up. After all,
the worthy man might have made a woful mistake.
For all that he knew, I might be a sharper or a
senator, a plenipotentiary or a pickpocket. I might
be Rowland Stevenson or Washington Irving—I
might be Morgan, or Sir Humphrey Davy, or the
Wandering Jew. I might be a vampyre or a ventriloquist.
I might be Cooper the novelist, for he
is sometimes “a travelling bachelor,” or I might be
our other Cooper, for he is a regular occupant of
the stage. I might be Captain Symmes going to
to circumstances. I might be Miss Wright—
no, I couldn't be Miss Wright—nor if I was, would
any body be guilty of such a solecism as to ask
Miss Wright to take charge of a lady, for she believes
that ladies can take charge of themselves.
After all, how does Obadiah know that I am not
the President of the United States? What a mistake
would that have been! How would the chief magistrate
of twenty-four sovereign republics have
been startled by the question, “Pray, friend, would
it suit thee to take charge of a lady?”
It is not to be supposed that I indulged in this
soliloquy at the expense of politeness. Not at all;
it was too soon to intrude on the sacredness of the
lady's quiet. Besides, however voluminous these
reflections may seem in the recital, but a few
minutes were occupied in their production; for
Perkins never made a steam generator half so potent
as the human brain. But day began to break, and
I thought it proper to break silence.
“It is a raw morning, madam,” said I.
“Very raw,” said she, and the conversation made
a full stop.
“The roads appear to be rough,” said I, returning to the charge.
“Very rough,” replied the lady.
Another full stop.
“Have you ever travelled in a stage before?” I
enquired.
“Yes, sir.”
“But never so great a distance, perhaps?”
“No, never.”
Another dead halt.
I see how it is, thought I. The lady is a blue—
she cannot talk of these common place matters, and
is laughing in her sleeve at my simplicity. I must
rise to a higher theme; and then, as the stage rolled
off the Schuylkill bridge, I said, “We have passed
the Rubicon, and I hope we shall not, like the
Roman conqueror, have cause to repent our temerity.
The day promises to be fair, and the
omens are all auspicious.”
“What did you say about Mr. Rubicam?” inquired
Mrs. Johnson.
I repeated; and the lady replied, “Oh! yes, very
likely,” and then resumed her former taciturnity.
Thinks I to myself, Captain Johnson and his lady
belong to the peace establishment. Well, if the
lady does not choose to talk, politeness requires of
me to be silent; and for the next hour not a word
was spoken.
I had now obtained a glimpse of my fair companion's
visage, and candour compels me to admit
that it was not quite so beautiful as I had anticipated.
Her complexion was less fair than I could have
wished, her eye was not mild, her nose was not
such as a statuary would have admired, and her lips
were white and thin. I made these few observations
with fear and trembling, for the lady repelled
frown lowered upon her haughty brow, and I could
almost fancy I saw a cockade growing to her bonnet,
and a pair of whiskers bristling on her cheeks.
There, thought I, looked Captain Johnson of the
Rifle—fortunate man! whose wife, imbibing the
pride and courage of a soldier, can punish with a
look of scorn the glance of impertinent curiosity.
At breakfast her character was more fully developed.
If her tongue had been out of commission
before, it had now received orders for active
service. She was convinced that nothing fit to eat
could be had at the sign of the “Black Horse,” and
was shocked to find that the landlord was a Dutchman.
“What's your name?” said she to the landlady.
“Redheiffer, ma'am.”
“Oh! dreadful! was it you that made the perpetual
motion?”
“No, ma'am.”
Then she sat down to the table, and turned up
her pretty nose at every thing that came within its
cognizance. The butter was too strong, and the
tea too weak; the bread was too stale, and the
bacon fresh; the rolls were heavy, and the lady's
appetite light.
“Will you try an egg?” said I.
“I don't like eggs.”
“Allow me to help you to a wing of this fowl.”
“I can't say that I'm partial to the wing.”
“A piece of the breast, then, madam.”
“It is very tough, isn't it?”
“No, it seems quite tender.”
“It is done to rags I'm afraid.”
“Quite the reverse—the gravy follows the knife.”
“Oh! horrible! it is raw!”
“On the contrary, I think it is done to a turn;
permit me to give you this piece.”
“I seldom eat fowl, except when cold.”
“Then, madam, here is a nice cold pullet—let
me give you a merry-thought; nothing is better to
travel on than a merry thought.”
“Thank you, I never touch meat at breakfast.”
And my merry thought flashed in the pan.
“Perhaps, sir, your lady would like some chipped
beef, or some—.”
“This is not my lady, Mrs. Redheiffer,” interrupted
I, fearing the appellation might be resented
more directly from another quarter.
“Oh la! I beg pardon; but how could a body
tell, you know—when a lady and gentleman travels
together, you know, it's so nateral.”
“Quite natural, Mrs. Redheiffer—.”
“May be, ma'am, you'd fancy a bit of cheese, or
a slice of apple-pie, or some pumpkin sauce, or a
sausage, or—”
I know not how the touchy gentlewoman would
have taken all this—I do not mean all these good
things, but the offer of them; for luckily before any
reply could be made, the stage driver called us off
I ventured to take another peep, and fancied she
looked vulgar; but how could I tell? Napoleon has
said, there is but a step between the sublime and
the ridiculous; and we all know that between very
high fashion and vulgarity there is often less than a
step. Good sense, grace, and true breeding lie
between. The lady occupied one of those extremes,
I knew not which; nor would it have been
polite to enquire too closely, as that was a matter
which more nearly concerned Captain Johnson of
the Rifle, who, no doubt, was excellently well
qualified to judge of fashion and fine women.
By this time the lady had wearied of her former
taciturnity, and grown loquacious. She talked incessantly,
chiefly about herself and her “Pa.”
“Her Pa was a Quaker, but she was not a Quaker.
They had turned her out of meeting for marrying
Captain Johnson. Her Pa was a merchant—he
was in the shingle and board line.”
Alas! I was in the bored line myself just then.
Gentle reader, I spare you the recital of all I suffered
during that day. The lady's temper was none
of the best, and travelling agreed with it but indifferently.
When we stopped she was always in
a fever to go; when going she fretted continually
to stop. At meal times she had no appetite; at all
other times she wanted to eat. As one of the
drivers expressed it, she was in a solid pet the whole
day. I had to alight a hundred times to pick up
a hundred times I wished her in the arms of Captain
Johnson of the Rifle. I bore it all amazingly,
however, and take to myself no small credit for
having discharged my duty, without losing my patience,
or omitting any attention which politeness
required. My companion would hardly seem to
have deserved this; yet still she was a female, and
I had no right to find fault with those little peculiarities
of disposition, which I certainly did not
admire. Besides, her husband was a captain in
the army; and the wife of a gallant officer who
serves his country by land or sea, has high claims
upon the chivalry of her countrymen.
At last we arrived at Baltimore, and I immediately
called a hack, and desired to know where I
should have the pleasure of setting down my fair
companion.
“At the sign of the Anchor, — Street, Fell's
Point,” was the reply.
Surprised at nothing after all I had seen, I gave
the order, and stepped into the carriage. “Is any
part of the Rifle regiment quartered on Fell's
Point?” said I.
“I don't know,” replied the lady.
“Does not your husband belong to that regiment?”
“La! bless you, no; Captain Johnson is'nt a
soldier?”
“I have been under a mistake, then. I understood
that he was a captain in the Rifle.”
“The Rifleman, Sir; he is captain of the Rifleman,
a sloop that runs from Baltimore to North
Carolina, and brings tar and turpentine, and such
matters. That's the house,” continued she, “And,
as I live, there's Mr. Johnson up and well!”
The person pointed out was a low, stout built,
vulgar man, half intoxicated, with a glazed hat on
his head, and a huge quid in his cheek. “How
are you, Polly?” said he, as he handed his wife out,
and gave her a smack which might have been heard
over the street. “Who's that gentleman? eh! a
messmate of yours?”
“That's the gentleman that took care of me on
the road?”
“The supercargo, eh? Come Mister, light and
take something to drink.”
I thanked the captain, and ordered the carriage
to drive off, fully determined, that whatever other
imprudence I might hereafter be guilty of, I would
never again, if I could avoid it, “take charge of a
lady.”
| THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. The soldier's bride and other tales | |