 | CHAPTER VII. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
A NAP SPOILED—SCENE IN A HAY-MOW—RUNNING A RACE
AGAINST ODDS—A GHOST STORY, AND A SPECTRAL FIGHT—
JOHN ESCAPES DEATH BY BEING NEARLY DROWNED—HIS
RETURN HOME, AND WHAT HE SAW THERE—HIS DISINTERESTED
SELF-DENIAL, AND WHAT HE GOT BY IT.
The place where John stopped to rest, was some
ten miles only from the abode of the old colonel; and
if by chance any of our readers should accuse him of
being a stupid, insensible block, for being able to sleep
within so short a distance from the object of his dearest
affections, after so long an absence, all we can say
in his behalf is, that he was debilitated by long confinement
and disease, that he had been up all the previous
night, and had walked all day without food or
rest. If these considerations do not secure his acquittal,
or, at least, greatly extenuate his offence, we must
leave him to settle the matter with Jane Hammond,
the first convenient opportunity. We know that persons
in love are said to be insensible to hunger, thirst,
and fatigue, but it is an absolute fact that man must
sleep sometimes, though it is considered rather common;
and, being common, must of course be rather a
vulgar business.
Be this as it may, however, our hero did not wake
her mantle of obscurity. Nor is it probable he would
have waked then, had he not been roused by the sound
of voices in the stable directly under him. From the
difference of tone and other peculiarities, he soon ascertained
that the party consisted of at least three or
four, and among them he was certain he recognised
the voice of his old enemy, Case Boshin. Recollecting
what the good woman of the house had told him
of the frequent visits of the Skinners, prudence, as
well as curiosity, impelled him to lay still and listen.
At first he heard nothing but ribald jokes, mingled
with loose profanity, and references to the outrages
they had already committed or had in contemplation;
but at length John was startled by a proposal that
they should all adjourn to the hay-mow, and take a
nap while the horses were feeding. This being carried,
John thought it high time to take care of himself,
as they were a desperate gang, and he could expect
nothing but death from Case, on the score of old
grievances. He had scarcely time to bury himself in
the hay, with his mouth close against a wide crack
which admitted the air, when the whole gang came
and sat down within half a yard of where he lay.
Here they began a consultation as to the propriety of
going to sleep, as was at first decided; the result of
which was, that they had better not, as they might oversleep
themselves, and be too late for some adventure
they had in view that night, but which they did not
explain at the time.
“It's a dry business to be waiting here without
cider to comfort us now,” said one.
“Well, Hanck, if we can't have the cider, suppose
we get Case to tell the story of cheating the old man
so famously when they were boys.”
“Agreed,” rejoined Hanck. “Come, Case, tell us
the story to pass away the time, while the horses are
resting themselves.”
Case then cleared his throat, and began as follows:
“You must know, boys, the old man was a peeler himself
at the spile, and betwixt him, and the old woman,
and us boys, the cider used commonly always to run
dry before Christmas; and as to buying any more, that
was out of the question, for we had no money, and nobody
would trust us. So the old man one time thought
he would trick us all out of our share, by putting a
lock on the cellar-door; and then he made a trap-door
right under his bed, thinking we couldn't get in day or
night unbeknown to him. Well, we boys one day laid
a plot to out-general him, and git into the cellar. We
were to wait till he began to snore, which he always
did like a northwester—for we didn't much mind the
old woman, who was plaguily sniffed at his contrivance
to cheat us out of our share—and then I was
to creep softly under the bed, lift up the trap-door, go
down into the cellar with the great pewter mug, and
hand up a mug of cider to each one in turn. Well,
as soon as the old man begun to snore, what did I do
but I creeps softly under the bed, lifts up the trap-door,
goes down into the cellar, helps myself to a mug
to make sure before the barrel gave out, and then begins
to hand out the boys' share. When I got pretty
was jist out, when I'll be shot if the old man didn't
put out his arm all of a sudden, and laying hold of
the mug, swallowed every drop of it without fetching
a single breath, only saying, `It's my turn, now, boys.'
Then he laid down, and began to snore as if nothing
had happened, and we all concluded he must have
done it in his sleep, for he never said a word about it
afterwards.”
This story tickled the auditors so sensibly, that
Hanck threw himself backwards in an ecstasy of
laughter, and fell upon the spot where John lay ensconced
beneath his covert.
“I'm blasted,” exclaimed Hanck, “if I didn't feel
something hard right under me,” and hastily removed
from the spot.
“Pooh! it's nothing but one of the beams,” said
Case.
“I'll see that, pretty quick,” rejoined the other; and
seizing a pitchfork, thrust it into the hay with such
good-will that one of the prongs ran betwixt John's
fingers, which he spread out instinctively to defend
himself. He had, however, the self-possession to lay
perfectly quiet, and Hanck, satisfied with the experiment,
returned to his seat, observing, that it was now
time to set out on their expedition to the old stone
house, by which name the residence of our hero's
grandfather was known in that part of the country.
John now listened with breathless anxiety.
“Are you sure,” said Case, “that the coast is clear?”
“Yes, just as sure as I set here. There is no one in
the house but the old people, and a little gal; for you
deserter, and we have nothing to fear from him. The
old people can't defend themselves, nor the young
woman, neither; and if they make a rout, we can
soon stop their windpipes, I reckon.”
“I 'most wish,” replied Case, “the young chap was
there, too, for I owe him a grudge or two, and should
like to pay him off with interest. If I ever get a good
chance, if I don't make daylight shine through him,
I'm a nigger. Is that captive horse there, he got from
the Yagers?”
“Yes, I saw him feeding in the meadow in front of
the house, and by George he made my mouth water!
He's a clipper, I tell you!”
“Well, I dreamt last night, I was riding him to
church one Sunday. You two shall have all the rest
of the stock, and I'll take him for my share,” rejoined
Case.
“Yes,” said Hanck, “and I'll have a smack of the
pretty gal to boot.”
“No you won't,” cried another, “I speak for the first
taste; Case shall have the next, so, you see, you are
in Jack come last.”
“I'm blasted, if I do!” rejoined the other; and a
dispute commenced, during which, John listened with
feelings that may be easily imagined. He comprehended
the designs of these ruthless marauders, and
knew full well they were capable of any atrocity.
Like the savages of the wilds, they spared neither sex
nor age, and being beyond the reach of law, despised
all the restraints of conscience and humanity. Forgetting
his own situation, he gave vent to his agonized
the ribald jesters, and smote their hearts with the terrors
of conscious guilt. A dead silence ensued, until
Case, the most reckless villain of the trio, at length
whispered to his comrades—
“Did you hear that?”
“Yes, that I did,” said Hanck; “it sounded for all
the world like the voice of a dead man.”
“Let's be off like a shot, for I heard it thunder a
great way off, and if it roars smartly the old folks
may cry out and welcome, nobody will hear them.”
“Nobody, but God!” cried John, in a hollow tone,
taking a hint from the dastard fears of these guilty
cowards, and following up the words by a long, deep
groan, which sent the trio tumbling over each other
out of the hay-mow in an ecstasy of fear. The moment
they were gone he left his concealment, and
seizing the pitchfork, after a brief consideration made
for the road across the fields with all the speed in his
power. The idea had occurred to him of cutting the
bridles and girths of the horses, but unluckily he had
no knife, and consequently he relinquished his purpose.
To turn the horses loose was a dangerous experiment,
as he could not tell but the party was lingering about
the place; so he wisely took to his heels in hopes of
reaching home before the villains arrived, in which
case he was confident he could manage them, and
with a resolution, if overtaken, to do his utmost to arrest
their diabolical purposes.
Fortunately for our hero, the affrighted Skinners
ran to the house, where they stopped to tell the good
woman what they had heard in the barn, and though
herself with opening her eyes, lifting her hands,
and from time to time exclaiming, “Well, for the land's
sake!” and, “Who'd have thought it!” thereby clearly
demonstrating that a woman can keep a secret, at
least in the new world. Having, however, screwed
up their courage by means of a canteen of spirits,
which commodity is said to be a special antidote to
the fear of ghosts, the trio at length ventured to return
to the stable in a body, escorted by the landlady, with
a lantern made of a hollow pumpkin, where they saddled
their steeds in great trepidation, mounted, and
galloped away as fast as the increasing darkness would
permit. These delays gave John the start some miles,
and as the distance was not more than nine or ten to
the old stone house, his hopes revived with his progress.
The night had now become excessively dark,
owing to the approach of a thunder-storm, and he
could scarcely distinguish the road, except by occasional
flashes of vivid lightning, followed by low, muttering
thunder, at a distance. He durst not stop to
listen, for moments were too precious; but at times he
fancied he could hear the clattering of hoofs behind
him, and his mind became busily occupied in devising
a plan of defence, in the event of being overtaken. He
still carried his pitchfork, and felt assured that, by
choosing a favourable position, he could make good
his stand against the odds of three to one. This was
his only hope; for, save the ruins of a house that had
been burnt by the enemy, there was no traces of a
human habitation on this unfrequented by-road.
There was no help, except in the strength of his arm,
He had now, as he discovered by the aid of a flash
of lightning, arrived within a few yards of an old
bridge, which spanned a deep and rapid stream, that
by the labour of ages had worn its way through a
ledge of high rocks, covered with gloomy evergreens.
There was no passing the stream except over the
bridge, the rocks on either hand being high and precipitous;
and here, perceiving the enemy was now rapidly
approaching, he determined to make his last stand.
His first essay was to attempt pulling up some of the
planks of the bridge, but they were too strongly fastened
down to admit of this, and he resolved to resort to start-agem
against such fearful odds. It was a retired,
gloomy spot, such as where rustic chroniclers are wont
to locate their tales of superstitious terrors, and already
renowned in tradition for various unaccountable
appearances, especially at night, for which the most
approved soothsayers could not account on any rational
principles. One of the best authenticated, was that
of Mangham, the pedlar and tinker, and we shall give
it here as a sample of all the rest.
Mangham was a man of notorious veracity, and, on
returning from a trip to New York, with his knapsack
replenished by various articles suitable to the wants
and vanities of the rural populace, met with the following
extraordinary adventure: His pack was heavy,
the day hot, and he had frequent occasion to stop
by the way to quench his thirst with milk punch,
which was his favourite beverage. Night was coming
on apace, and fearing to halt for a lodging at any of
by Skinners, Yagers, and other banditti fry, which
roamed between the lines, he determined to push on
to the abode of Colonel Hammond. Here he always
found a welcome for his news, and he was sure of it
now, for he had some papers of pins, a supply of needles,
and other choice articles for Jane, purchased with
money furnished by the old continental, who had a bad
habit of paying beforehand.
Accordingly, he continued on his way far into the
night, and as near as he could guess arrived at the
bridge, soon to be illustrated by the exploits of our
hero, about the hour of eleven. Here, feeling himself
greatly fatigued, and withal very thirsty, he set down
his load, and proceeded to drink from the brook after
the primitive fashion, that is to say, laying himself
down at full length, and quaffing the current as it
murmured by. But what was his surprise (for he declared
he was not the least alarmed) to find that the
moment his lips touched the water, he was saluted
by a tweak of the nose that brought tears into his
eyes, while at the same time the brook, instead of
murmuring musically along as usual, grumbled out in
a hoarse voice, “What business have you to drink my
water?”
The pedlar was at first somewhat indignant at this
assault on his nose, which was a very goodly one, and
somewhat rosy at the extremity. At first he surmised
it might be a snapping-turtle, then a snake, and lastly
a lobster, that is, a fresh water lobster; but when he
heard the question, “What business have you to drink
my water?” he abandoned all these theories as untenable.
birth a German, and as such, deeply imbued with the
legends of Number Nip and the Hartz Mountain. He
accordingly made up his mind at once that he was
taking an undue liberty with an Undine, or some
other pestilent damsel of the web-footed breed, and
leaving his untasted draught, retired to the spot where
he had deposited his merchandise at the corner of the
bridge.
He first thought of making the best of his way to
the mansion of the colonel; but he felt so tired, he
could not find in his heart to go any farther without
resting, and the murmurs of the brook created an irresistible
longing for a taste of its waters. In the
midst of this conflict, he fell asleep with his head on
his pack, and how long he remained thus he could not
exactly tell; but this he could swear to, he ever and
anon heard the words, “What business have you to
drink of my water?” ringing in his ears, accompanied
by a succession of tweaks at his nose that made his
eyes wink though he was fast asleep.
Every time the words were repeated, they became
louder and louder, and the tweaks waxed more emphatical,
until, at length, his nose was actually pulled
off, which caused him suddenly to awake in great
tribulation. The first object he recognised on opening
his eyes, was an extremely ugly old woman, whose
face, being illustrated by the beams of a full moon,
was marvellously imposing, as she held up his nose in
her hand with a look of diabolical triumph. She had
evidently just emerged from the stream, for the drops
trickled from her long, green locks, which sparkled
these drops happening to fall on his hand, immediately
raised a blister, it was so hot, which made him conclude
the old woman came from a place which shall
be nameless, and was no better than she should be.
He was now, as he confessed, very much frightened,
and would have ran away had it not been for leaving
his nose behind.
“You drank my water,” at length screamed the old
woman, “without asking my leave, and I have taken
your nose in payment, though, ifegs, it's no great bargain,
for it's the ugliest piece of furniture I ever
seed.”
The old woman, it will be perceived, was no great
scholar. But however that may be, the pedlar became
somewhat wroth at this reflection on his nose,
of which he was excessively vain. Anger being the
father of valour, this attack on his proboscis caused
Mangham to feel somewhat pugnacious, or, as he used
to express it, “a little wolfish about the ears.” Instead
of apologizing for his offence, and then vindicating
his nose, he began at the wrong end—he put
the cart before the horse, and maintained that his nose
was as goodly a nose as any in the whole county, not
excepting her own. Finally, he pledged his veracity
that he had not tasted a single drop of water, and demanded
the restitution of his nose on the ground that
he had not got value received for it, and consequently
the whole transaction was illegal.
“Heigh for a fiddlestick's end!” exclaimed the Undine
old woman. “Here's a pretty kettle of fish
about one of the ugliest noses that ever disfigured
disgrace the snout of a pig. But I am a goddess of
few words, and always speak to the purpose. The
short and the long of the business is, that I must have
the rummaging of that pack of yours, and the privilege
of selecting such articles as I choose, without
paying for them, or I swear by my fins you shall go
without a handle to your face all the rest of your
life.”
Finding, after a succession of most humble appeals,
reinforced occasionally by various cunning devices to
overreach or intimidate the old woman, that it was
vain to appeal to her pity or her fears, and horror-stricken
at the idea of going home without his nose,
the poor pedlar at last assented to the terms of the
paction, and permitted her to rummage his pack at
discretion. The envious old creature selected all the
little articles purchased for Jane Hammond, with the
money furnished by the colonel, and having satisfied
herself fully, in order to show herself a woman of her
word, stuck the tinker's nose on again as fast as though
it had never been removed. Then wishing him joy on
its recovery, and sprinkling him with a few drops of
hot water which she shook from her green locks, she
wished him a pleasant journey, and told him to march
about his business without looking behind him, if he
knew when he was well off.
When Mangham arrived at the house of the colonel,
and in order to account for not bringing the articles
ordered for our heroine, related the preceding story,
the old continental laughed full two hours, and affirmed,
by Thunder and Mars, that never was so capital a
and poor Jane lamented nothing so much as the loss
of the needles and pins, which were worth about their
weight in gold at that time. Many people doubted
this rencontre with the Undine, but our own opinion
is, that this old lady was one of the nymphs celebrated
by the ancient poets, who, in the lapse of so many
centuries, had lost her beauty, forgot her grammar,
outlived her good manners, and expended all her integrity
in gaining an honest livelihood among Christians.
It was at this elfin spot, so memorable in the biography
of the tinker, that John had now determined
to make a stand against the Skinners, in defiance
of the old woman and the black fiddler, who had more
than once been seen playing there, accompanied by a
shaggy bear, who danced almost equal to Fanny Esler,
and a great, whiskered, bandy-legged turnspit, who
beat time with his tail with all the inimitable grace
of a leader of the band at an Italian opera. Armed
with his pitchfork, and equipped in his old white muslin
suit, a little the worse for wear, it must be confessed,
he stood at the front of the bridge waiting the
coming of the midnight ruffians, whom he could not
outrun. They gained the bridge almost the instant he
had taken his post; but the moment they distinguished
his dingy white figure through the gloom, predisposed
by the groans in the hay-mow, they suddenly halted,
wheeled about, and, with the exception of Case Boshin,
made a precipitate retrograde movement. Even
the redoubtable Case, after standing his ground a few
moments, his teeth chattering in his head, followed the
you running to, blast your eyes?”
“Didn't you see it?” answered Hanck.
“See what, you sneaking ninny?”
“Why that there white thing standing on the bridge.”
“Pooh! 'twas nothing but the post.”
“The posts are as black as my hat. There! there!
I saw it by that flash of lightning as plain as I see
you,” persisted Hanck. “I'm for going back for my
part. We shall have a pelting shower soon, and I've
no notion of getting a wet jacket to-night.”
“If it storms, so much the better,” replied Case;
“there will be no scouting parties out, and the coast
will be clear. Come along, you cowardly fools; follow
me, I'm not afeard of Spooks.” Saying this, he
spurred his horse once more towards the bridge, and
the two others, ashamed of their fears, or afraid to
stay behind, unwillingly followed, for cowardice is felt
as a disgrace even among those who have lost all other
manly feelings.
John, who had noticed the retreat and divined its
cause, took a hint from their fears, and as they were
just on the point of planting their horses' hoofs on the
bridge, gave them a perfect fac-simile of the groan he
had uttered in the hay-mow. It was a groan so sonorous,
so sepulchral, and unearthly, that it startled the
very silent night, and roused the sleeping echoes of
the rocks around. It was too much for the nerves of
these midnight marauders, and, as if by one impulse,
they one and all scampered away the road they came
without once venturing to look behind them.
As, however, the distance increased, their courage
no other road by which they could accomplish their
design that night, they once more halted and sought
to disguise their fears by bantering and joking each
other, until, by degrees, they once more plucked up
the courage to advance. Our hero heard their approach,
though he could not yet see them in the pitchy
darkness, which increased every moment as the storm
began to howl at a distance. The first hoof planted
on the bridge, was the signal for springing forward
and darting his weapon in the direction whence the
sound proceeded. They were all advancing abreast,
and the only effect of this movement, was grazing the
skin of Hanck's horse, who suddenly reared and threw
him, but without any serious injury.
The storm having now passed off in another direction,
and the moon occasionally peeping out from behind
the clouds, afforded the combatants opportunities
of seeing each other at intervals. The Skinners, being
soon convinced it was no ghost they had to encounter,
but a thing of real flesh and blood, became
only more bold and ferocious in consequence. They
demanded, with oaths and threats, that he should let
them pass; but he made no reply, and continued to
stand on the defensive. Enraged at this interruption,
which so greatly impeded their meditated plan of robbery,
the party now dashed forward, and a furious contest
ensued. The weapon of our hero, being none of
the sharpest, and his thrusts often made at random,
while the moon passed behind a cloud, were sometimes
spent on the air, an anon glanced aside from
the tough skin of the horses; while the others, being
approached him. In this way, the fight continued for
some time without either party sustaining any material
injury, when, as fortune chanced, or fate decreed,
the weight and violent action of the horses proved too
great for the crazy old bridge, one of the planks of
which suddenly gave way under him, and our hero,
falling through, remained for a brief moment supporting
himself by his arms. While in this situation, and
before he could recover himself, he received a blow on
the head from a broadsword, which inflicted a severe
wound, and so stunned him that he lost his hold, fell
through the opening, and was carried away by the
stream.
The marauders, now freed from their unknown antagonist,
proceeded forward with all speed on their
destination, leaving poor John “alone in his glory.”
Being prevented from sinking by the force of the current,
he was carried some hundred yards down the
stream, and finally deposited on a little point of land,
projecting outwards, and forming an eddy on the lower
side. Here he lay unconscious of his situation for
some time, his body floating, his head resting on the
sloping sand. By degrees, however, he at length, in
some measure, regained his recollection, and was able
to drag himself entirely out of the water, the coldness
of which had in a great measure staunched the bleeding
from his wound. Collecting his benumbed faculties,
he at length attempted to rise, but it was only
after repeated efforts that he succeeded, and when he
did, his head became so dizzy that he fell to the ground
again. Still, animated by the hope of saving his home
murder, he repeated his efforts, and at length
found himself able to walk feebly onwards.
Not knowing how long he had remained in a state
of insensibility, he was unable to judge whether it was
now possible to reach home in time to arrest the
scheme of plunder; but at all events he determined
to try, and regaining the bridge, he seized his trusty
weapon, and set forth with all the speed in his power.
But spite of all his efforts, his progress kept no pace
with his wishes or his exertions. He was often obliged
to stop and take breath, and his weakness at every
moment was augmented by the blood that now trickled
from his wound, while the bitter consciousness that
every moment of delay might enable the plunderers
to accomplish their purpose, distracted his mind and
enfeebled his body. Every instant he expected to
meet them on their return, and felt that in his present
condition he was entirely at their mercy.
He, however, proceeded onwards without encountering
that peril, until, just as the rising sun glanced
his golden beams athwart the dewy fields, he found
himself looking from a rising ground down into the
smiling vale where nestled his long lost home. He
saw the moss-covered roof of the old stone house,
standing in all its loneliness; but no smoke rose from
out the chimney-top, as was wont at that hour, and
the absence of this token of life and animation smote
like the cold hand of death on his heart. As he gazed
around on the fields, he saw neither cattle or sheep,
and the conviction rushed on his mind that he had
come too late. He approached the door of the once
it standing wide open. He looked in, and saw a sight
that thrilled his very soul with mingled anguish and
bitter revenge. The good old housewife was sitting,
with the head of the old man resting in her lap, while
his body lay extended on the floor, which was covered
with blood. A plaintive moaning announced that he
still lived, but the wife was silent as the grave. Her
pale, wrinkled face, was turned towards heaven, as if
appealing to its justice, or in humble resignation to
its decrees; her few gray hairs were without the accustomed
covering, and she neither complained or
wept. As John stood contemplating this scene of wo,
incapable of moving, and almost lifeless, she drew a
long, deep sigh, and at length murmured, as to herself,
these melancholy words—
“My son is dead, my husband is dead, and John will
never come home again. Why, O Father of mercy!
why can't I die too?”
In an instant John was on his knees by the side of
his grandfather.
“Mother!” cried he, for he remembered no other,
“mother, see! I am come home, never to leave you
alone again, so help me heaven!”
She looked at him wistfully, as if scarcely recognising
the speaker, or comprehending his speech, and
seeing the bloody gash in his head, murmured as to
herself—
“More murder—more murder—all but me can
die!”
John took her cold, withered hand, and wept over
it. There is a magic power in tears of heartfelt sympathy,
and awakens even despair to recollection. She looked
in his face a while, and by degrees recognised her
grandson.
“Oh! John! John! why did you leave us here all
alone? See what has come to us,” and she pointed to
the bleeding head in her lap. This recalled him to a
sense of the necessity of action, rather than the indulgence
of unavailing sorrow. He perceived the old
man was not dead, and lifting him tenderly in his
arms, placed his body on a bed, and, as well as he
could, bound up the wound. He looked round for
something else which might administer to his aid, but
the room was a scene of utter desolation. He saw no
means of comfort or revival to the aged victim, whose
low moans smote him to the heart, and with sudden
determination, addressed his grandmother—
“I will return in a few minutes,” said he, and took
his way towards the house of Colonel Hammond, fast
as his waning strength would permit. He soon reached
the spot, and knocking at the door with eager impatience,
it was opened by a sweet vision, that broke
upon him like a pale aurora out of the morning mists.
She screamed at the sight of the bloody spectre, and
was about to call her father, when a well-known voice
arrested her steps.
“Jane! dearest Jane! have you forgotten me?”
Jane did not, she could not reply, for her voice was
smothered in his bosom for some brief moments, after
which she raised her head, and as she scanned his pale
face and wretched attire, spotted with blood, asked
with a gush of tenderness—
“Oh! tell me where you have been, and what has
happened to you?”
“Not now—I have other things to tell you, and must
not lose a moment.” He then briefly and hurriedly
related the incidents we have just described, and the
reason of his unceremonious intrusion, while Jane,
overpowered by the force of love and pity, wept once
more on his bosom.
“Thunder and Mars!” exclaimed the colonel, who
was just emerging from his dormitory, “What is all
this? Who are you, sir? and what are you about,
madam?”
“Father,” answered Jane, for it is the privilege of
the sex to speak first, “father, don't you know him?”
“Not I. Thun—my acquaintance is not so extensive
among such kinds of gentry, as yours, it seems.
But, hey! what! now I come to look—why, zounds!
if I don't believe it's that puppy, John! Give me your
hand, boy. I'm right glad to see you, especially as you
don't wear a red coat, I see. But where have you
been? what have you been doing? what brought you
here in such a trim? and—and—Thunder and Mars!
why don't you speak, you blockhead?”
John then made known his errand, and to do him
justice, the colonel sympathised deeply in his tale.
“But no use in talking,” cried he, “something must
be done at once. I know a little of flesh-wounds, myself,
and will order my horse and go with you. In the
meantime, we must send for Doctor Foster, who stops
bleeding with three leaves—and—and—what shall we
do, Jane?”
“If you will permit me, father,” answered Jane,
take such things as may be useful; you know I am
an excellent doctor, sir!”
“I know you are an excellent nurse, and that is
worth all the doctors in the land,” replied the colonel,
affectionately.
Jane proceeded to collect various articles, with
which, all women whose education has been properly
attended to, know so well how to administer to bodily
suffering, and while the colonel was waiting for his
horse, accompanied our hero on her errand of mercy.
During the whole of their walk, it is our solemn belief
they never once thought of themselves, except
just in passing through a little grove, whose wicked
twilight seduced them for a moment along a narrow
path, which shortened the distance materially, they
came so close together, that the young man could not
in good manners avoid pressing his companion to his
heart, and imprinting a kiss on her lips, for which, we
hope heaven and our female readers will forgive him.
On their arrival, they found the little maid, who had
been reared in the family and become a part of it,
having been frightened away at the first alarm of the
Skinners, was now returned, and had resumed her
household duties. With her assistance, everything
was done for the poor wounded old man that seemed
necessary, or was within their reach; the colonel arrived
soon after, and afforded the aid of his experience,
and Doctor Foster in good time made his appearance.
But as the wound had already ceased bleeding,
he found no opportunity of demonstrating the efficacy
of the magic leaves, and all he could do was to insist
have stopped the blood to a dead certainty.
We will not tax the patience of the gentle reader,
by detailing the process by which the old man was
slowly rescued from the grave, by the gentle ministration
of Jane, the sage advice of the colonel, and the
providential absence of Doctor Foster, who was confined
to his house by an attack of inflammatory rheumatism.
The good patriarch was cured of his wound,
but never recovered from its effects. His mind was
irretrievably gone; and during the brief remaining
period of his life, his only occupation was rambling
about bareheaded, in storm and sunshine, picking up
chips and sticks, which he would bring in and lay on
the fire, muttering to himself, “Yes—yes—a tory is a
highway robber.”
The Skinners, it seems, had arrived about an hour
after midnight, and while two of them were collecting
the spoil out of doors, the third plundered the house
within, at the same time heaping insult and outrage
on the helpless old couple. Aged and decrepid as he
was, the good man possessed a portion of that spirit
which had descended to his son and grandson. He
could not resist, but reproached the robber as an enemy
to his country and his God; as a brute, who disgraced
the name of man; as a coward, possessing
only the courage to war on women, children, and old
age; as a midnight thief, who dared not fight either
for or against his countrymen in the face of day, and
lived by the plunder of pig-styes and hen-roosts. Irritated
by these cutting reproaches, Case Boshin, for
he it was, struck the old man across the head with his
body, forever robbed him of the divinity of mind. The
wife never thoroughly recovered the shock of that terrible
night; the mouldering tenement had received a
rude jostle that shook it to the foundation, and it became
evident, that, as the ancient pair had travelled
the devious journey of life for more than threescore
years together, so in their deaths they would not be
long divided.
In this state of things, it was impossible for our
hero to think of resuming his military career, even had
he not bound himself by a promise not to leave home
for any length of time. Indeed, his personal labours
were now indispensable to the subsistence of the family.
The cattle had been stolen from the fields, and
the house rifled of all that was valuable. True, the
old continental generously offered to supply all that
was wanting, and more besides; but John at once almost
sternly rejected his kindness, and he went away
in high dudgeon, denouncing him as a purse-proud,
beggarly puppy. But Jane—the gentle, delicate, generous
Jane! John could not be offended with her,
when almost every day she brought or sent some little
comfort or convenience, not of sufficient value to load
him with the weight of obligation, but still enough to
call forth all his gratitude. Still, he continued rather
restive under this system of persevering benefits, and
more than once did the noble-hearted girl feel her
heart swell with mingled sorrow and indignation, under
a vague suspicion that he did not value her sufficiently
to permit her to become his benefactress. She
fancied, too, that he did not seek her as eagerly or as
used to do, previous to his last long absence. Her
heart did not deceive her; for the sense of pecuniary
obligation is not favourable to love, which is a strictly
democratic principle, and thrives best in the generous
soil of equality.
One evening, when all immediate apprehension for
the life of his grandfather had subsided, John had
walked over to the colonel's, and was now for the first
time questioned as to the cause of his long absence.
He accordingly entered into a full detail of his adventures,
whereat the old continental uttered many a
“Thunder and Mars,” and his daughter, many an exclamation
of apprehension, wonder, and delight. It
would be utterly belying the heart of an old soldier
to deny that the story of his sufferings, his steadiness,
gallantry, and patriotism, did not greatly raise him in
the estimation of the colonel; and it would be a still
more atrocious slander of the heart of woman, to insinuate
that every hardship he endured, and every
danger he encountered, did not endear him still more
to the colonel's daughter.
“By the memory of the immortal Wolfe!” cried the
old soldier, when he had done, “By the memory of the
immortal Wolfe, but this beats the siege of old Ti!
Thunder and Mars! I've a great mind—hum—”
“To do what?” asked Jane, with a bright, speaking
eye.
“I've a great mind to give—hum—”
“To give what, father?”
“I've a great mind—yes, Thunder and Mars! I
will—hum—”
“Will what, dear father?”
“Why, zounds! marry you to this puppy, as soon as
we can find a parson to do the job. Hey, John! what
say you to that, dummy, for you seem to have lost your
tongue in the last two minutes?”
John, as most of our readers will probably decide,
proved himself on this occasion a great blockhead, in
not jumping at this offer as eagerly as he did from the
stern of the old hospital-ship; and we frankly confess,
that when we came to this point in his history, we felt
a great inclination to discard him forever from our
good graces, and let him float quietly the rest of his
way to oblivion. Reflecting, however, a little more
deeply on the subject, it occurred to us, that, inasmuch
as a faultless hero was a monster, a perfect lusus
naturæ, on the whole we decided to finish his biography.
The truth is, he belonged to that strange,
perverse class of people, who feel a great deal more
pleasure in conferring than receiving benefits. In
fact, he was naturally excessively proud; and what
heightens the enormity of this fault, he had become
only the more so, since the distance between himself
and his mistress had been increased by the losses lately
sustained by his family, and the little obligations
conferred on them by Jane. He felt the weight of
his inferiority of position, and it had become a settled
principle in his mind, never to claim the promise of
the colonel until he had fulfilled the conditions on
which it was made. This is all we can allege in his
behalf, and with this explanation we resign him to the
mercy of the judicious and gentle reader.
Instead of accepting promptly, and expressing his
he muttered, and stammered, and coloured, and exhibited
a degree of embarrassment perfectly inexplicable
to the colonel and his daughter, one of whom eyed him
ferociously, the other with indignant amazement. At
length he managed to stammer—
“Colonel Hammond—I—I cannot express my gratitude.”
“Then hold your tongue, sir, or say something that
people in their senses can understand.”
“Nay, hear me, sir. You once told me I was a beggar,
and that the only daughter of Colonel Hammond
should never unite herself to a man without fortune
or reputation. I had neither one nor the other, then;
I have, if possible, less of either now. I promised
you, that if heaven spared me, and opportunity offered,
I would make myself worthy of Jane, and at that time
I thought I could keep my word. But my prospects
are now more gloomy than ever. The little property
I might have expected to inherit, is desolated, and what
is of yet more consequence, the situation of my grandparents
is such, that I cannot, I will not leave them
now, to seek my fortune in the service of my country.
No hope remains that I shall ever be able to fulfil my
part of the conditions, on which, alone, I can consent
to receive the greatest blessing of my life; and without
this, I have solemnly sworn never to claim the
hand of the only woman I ever loved, or can love. I
must fairly win her—I must feel that she does not sink
in the world when she becomes mine, or mine she will
never be, though I would move heaven and earth to
win her.”
“And so, sir, you refuse my daughter, do you? Very
well—I say no more—there's the door. Do you understand?”
exclaimed the colonel, as he shuffled to the
door, and threw it wide open.
“When you come to reflect on my motives, sir—”
“Reflect! Thunder and Mars! what's the use of
reflecting, sir? The thing is perfectly plain. You
have rejected the only daughter of Colonel Hammond,
an old continental, and the richest man in the whole
township. I comprehend that perfectly, and as to your
motives, I don't care a straw about them. There's the
door, sir!” The colonel then bustled out of the room
in a fury, leaving our hero alone with Jane.
“Jane—dearest Jane! you, at least, understand me,
I hope?” said John.
Jane made no answer, but as she followed her father,
gave him one look which the young recreant remembered
for many a day. It was not precisely such
a look as she bestowed on Artemas Day, with which
she annihilated all his hopes at one blow, but a glance
of mingled reproach, wounded pride, and sorrowful
anger, such as, when it flashes from the eye of one
we love, cuts deep into the heart. Jane was a woman,
not quite an angel, and there are so many reasons
deeply mortifying to the sex, and dishonourable to man
for the course pursued by our hero on this occasion,
that we think Jane may be excused for ascribing to
want of true affection, what in reality proceeded from
the highest, purest sources of virtuous love. She was
wrong in this, and it remains to be seen whether she
will ever come right again.
John was actually confounded at the result of his
some time where he was, either from not exactly
knowing what to do with himself, or from a latent
hope that Jane would return. But she came no
more; and at length he slowly took his way towards
his disconsolate home, occupied by a strange medley
of feelings. He had, without doubt, from sheer ignorance
of the workings of that incomprehensible machine,
the human heart, flattered himself that his heroic
disinterestedness would have won the admiration
of his mistress, and the applause of her father; but
he had been turned, as it were, out of doors by the
colonel, and had received from Jane a look that spoke
volumes, not of approval, but reproach, and—he could
not tell what besides. He tried to persuade himself
he was an injured man, and such attempts are seldom
unsuccessful. This conviction is always a source of
great consolation, and accordingly as he proceeded on
his way, his chest gradually expanded, he held his
head higher, his step became more elastic, and his form
assumed additional dignity. In short, he had made
friends with himself, and the alliance sustained him
against the censure or disapproval of others.
Our heroine, in the meantime, had retired to her
chamber. She did not weep, for pride came to her
aid; and whatever severe moralists may say, “pride
oft keeps men, and women, too, from falling.” At first
her feelings partook more of indignation than of disappointed
hope, or wounded affection. She called to
mind all she had felt and suffered for the ungrateful
youth; how she had mourned his supposed delinquencies,
sympathised in his sufferings, wept over his captivity,
these recollections, instead of hardening, softened her
heart. They brought her back into her wonted state
of feeling, and before pride could put in another word,
or was aware of the trick her heart was playing her,
the little bosom traitor gradually lured her back again
to her old accustomed love. Then, taking advantage
of this cessation of hostilities, he solemnly assured her
that this imaginary rejection, was the best possible
proof of the purity of her lover's passion. It demonstrated
his disinterestedness beyond a doubt; it showed
he loved her better than himself, and that he was capable
of every sacrifice, but that of her respectability
and happiness.
“What a fool I have been,” thought Jane, and burst
into a passion of tears. “It is all over now. He is as
proud as Lucifer—how I do hate proud men. He will
never come here again, unless he is sent for; he will
wait a long time before I send for him. But he is
poor; and after all, pride is the best safeguard of poverty,
and makes it respectable. I would not give much
for a man without pride, for my part. Oh! if I could
only see him once more, just to explain that look I
gave him—I wish I had been blind just then; but
he'll never come near me again, with that confounded
pride of his—and I, forsooth, am expected to make the
first advances—I'll be switched if I do—I'll see him in
Guinea first—I will never speak to him again, unless
he goes down on his knees, and begs my pardon for
rejecting me.” This single word, rejecting, grated so
harshly on her feelings, that it did John's business for
that time; and thus ended her soliloquy.
The month of September now came round on the
ever-rolling wheels of time, and every one at the old
stone house being as well as could be expected, John
felt the weight of inaction every day more intolerable;
especially as the sight of the colonel's chimneys operated
as a perpetual incentive to activity and exertion,
by which alone he could hope to win his mistress with
honour to himself and her. He had solemnly covenanted
with himself to do this; and although most
people do not much mind breaking faith with that
worthy gentleman, John had too many motives for
keeping it, to admit of such delinquency. As he could
not join the army, for reasons already stated, all that
was left him was to make occasional excursions with
some of the young fellows of the neighbourhood, in the
hope of serving his country by intercepting straggling
plunderers, or giving information which might be useful
to the cause to which his whole soul was devoted.
One of these occasions led to an adventure which produced
a sudden change in his prospects, and demonstrated
that though chance may present opportunities
for acquiring distinction, they can only be appropriated
successfully by courage, integrity and patriotism.
| CHAPTER VII. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty | |