 | CHAPTER X. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
A BREAKFAST SCENE—A LEFT-HANDED PANEGYRIC ON WAR—
A LAND SCRAPE—A COUNTRY CHURCH—A RARE FORTUNETELLER,
WHOSE PREDICTIONS ARE EVENTUALLY ACCOMPLISHED—THE
TRAVELLER INTERCEPTED—OFFERS AND REFUSALS,
SHOWING THAT POVERTY IS NOT QUITE SO GREAT A
ROGUE AS SOME PEOPLE THINK.
At parting with his eccentric guide, our traveller
pursued his way briskly, until he came to a little town,
pleasantly situated, where he halted to refresh himself
and horse at a small inn by the roadside. He was
weary, and his mind but ill at ease, for he could not
hide from himself that his situation was equivocal,
and felt as every honourable man must feel when imposing
on the world in an assumed character. As he
sat musing in this unpleasant state of mind, a young
girl, of rather interesting appearance, and modest manner,
was passing in and out the room, preparing his
meal, of whom, at length, rather from idleness, than
any interest in the question, he inquired the name of
the village.
“Sing Sing, sir,” she replied.
“It must be a very musical place. I suppose you
do nothing but sing all day long.”
“No, indeed, sir—we have no heart to sing; even
the birds have left off singing, I believe.”
“Aye, indeed; and what may be the reason?”
“Our fathers and brothers are gone to the wars, or
to their graves; the fields have grown up into weeds,
for there is no one to cultivate them, and if there were,
they would be plundered before harvest time. I have
heard say the beggar may sing before the robber, but
believe he seldom has the heart to sing.”
“And your sweethearts—they too are gone to the
wars, I suppose.”
“We don't think of such things now, sir.”
“No—what do you think of, then?”
“Of insult, poverty, and starvation.”
“Suppose you take me for a sweetheart,” said he,
smiling.
“Your breakfast is ready, sir.”
“Nay, I must have a kiss—one kiss!” and he advanced
towards her, placing his arm around her waist.
“Oh, my poor mother!” exclaimed she, bursting into
tears.
“Never mind your mother, she don't see you now.”
“Yes she does, and my father too.”
“Indeed—where are they?”
“In heaven, I trust, sir.”
“What! an orphan?” exclaimed he, quickly disengaging
his arm. “Forgive me, my poor girl. How
long have you been here? you look as if you were
not born for this place.”
“No, sir—necessity forced me to it.”
“As how, poor girl?”
“Do you see that black chimney, yonder, over the
fields?”
“What, close by the willow tree?”
“That was my home, sir; but they came one dark
night, about two months ago, and burnt it down, because
they said we were d—d rebels, and my brothers
were serving in the continental army.”
“Who burnt it down?”
“The red coats, sir.”
“The red devils reward them, I say; but go on, and
tell me all.”
“In that house lived my father and mother.”
“And they murdered them?”
“No, sir, not with their swords. They set fire to the
house, in the dead of night, and then rode away, huzzaing
for King George. My father was old, and confined
with rheumatism; my mother sick with ague
and fever, and—so they were burnt to death. I was
young, and escaped, though I could not help them;
and having no other home, I came here to earn my
bread, and be insulted by whoever pleases.”
“Forgive me—I entreat you to forgive me; I was
but in sport.”
“It may be sport to you, sir, but it is death to me.”
Saying this, she left the room.
“Bad—bad—bad,” said the traveller, shaking his
head. “I shall see to this when I get to New York.
The rebels can neither be conciliated or conquered by
such treatment.”
“Sir,” said the little girl, who had returned to wait
on him.
“I—I—mean, can I do anything for you. Will
money be of any service to you, my poor girl?” and
he took her kindly by the hand.
“No, sir. But you look as if you might belong to
and Thomas Raymond. If you should chance to see
them, tell them you saw me, and that I am well; but
don't tell them what I have been telling you, for
if they knew, they would butcher every red coat that
fell into their hands. There is blood enough shed in
battle, and though I own I cannot forgive their cruelty,
I sometimes pray God to forgive them.”
“What a wreath to deck the annals of glory!”
thought the traveller, as he sat down to breakfast.
“Surely fate can be little else than a chance medley.
She fires at random, careless where she hits, or whose
heart she pierces. What had this poor girl done, that
she should be left fatherless, motherless, homeless, to
wait at a tavern on me; me, who at this moment am
about to aim a death-blow at the heart of her country?
It might humble the pride of the hero, did he know
that, after all his exertions, he is but warring against
decrepid age, helpless women, and innocent babes.
It is they that bear the brunt of bloody war, and pay
the price of glory.”
On his departure, he continued for some time occupied
by a train of reflections, arising out of the tale to
which he had been listening, until arriving at the summit
of a hill, a scene broke upon his view so magnificently
beautiful, that it at one and the same moment,
arrested his progress and his thoughts. Towards the
north, he saw the distant Highlands, rising in a long
line of blue waving curves, tracing the skies from east
to west, and passing away in gradually softened tints,
till they melted and mingled with the clouds. To the
south, a fair expanse of variegated fields, meadows, and
and wide; while towards the west, a long line of bold
hills skirted the noble river, and ended at last in those
majestic cliffs, projecting out at intervals, one beyond
the other, like massive battlements and towers, not
the fabled work of the giants or Cyclops, but of the
sublime Architect of the universe.
The soul of our traveller was full of poetry. He
loved nature in her beautiful attire, and his feelings
promptly associated themselves with the prospect
around him. From thence, by a natural transition,
his recollections wandered towards his native land,
the scenes of his early days, and the wonted inmates
of his heart, whom a distance of three thousand miles,
and an intervening ocean, only rendered nearer and
dearer. Murmuring a name dearer than all the rest
besides, he spurred his horse, and descended into a
solitary woodland glen, which, though not houseless,
seemed quite deserted. Anon he came in sight of the
steeple of a rustic stone church, peeping its taper point
above a grove of ancient locust-trees, where the road
making a sudden turn to the left, led into a narrow
pass, shaded with trees, and coursed by a large brook,
over which a bridge appeared at intervals as he proceeded,
on which he was somewhat startled to perceive
some one standing, as if awaiting his arrival.
Coming up to the bridge, he at once recognised his
former crack-brained guide, posted as if resolved to
arrest his course, and the rencontre was so peculiarly
unwelcome, in his present frame of mind, that
he addressed Hagar rather unceremoniously, with
“What do you want? and what are you doing here?”
“Oh, consider, cow, consider!” replied Hagar, adopting
the whining cant of beggary. “Consider, cow,
consider, as the song says; shall I sing it for you, sir?
Consider I'm a poor, lonesome woman, with a family
of thirteen children, one for every state, you know;
and a husband that can't lift his hand to his head, for
the rheumatiz. For charity's sake give me a guinea,
won't you, honey dear? Do, now, and I'll sing you
one of my best songs.”
“A guinea? why, it is only a few hours ago that
I gave you a dollar.”
“Aye, sir, but you can't say you gave it me, for I
earned it honestly by showing you the right road. But
whether or no, it is all gone, and spent, and I've no
larning to make up for its loss. I bought a paper of
pins, and two jew's-harps, of an old tinkering pedlar,
for my little pickaninnies to larn music.”
“Poor idiot!” exclaimed the traveller. “Have you
no friends, that you are wandering about between the
lines, in these dangerous times?”
“Oh, sir, I am not afraid of any body but the ghosts,
and the red coats, that are so fond of pretty women.
The Yagers would skin a flint, but they can get nothing
from poor me; and as for the tories, I always
scratch out their eyes whenever I meet them. Now
do, honey dear, bless your heart—I know by your handsome
face you must be tender-hearted; now do give
a guinea to a poor soul that lives in a hollow tree, and
tells fortunes.”
“Will you tell mine?”
“What will you give me, sir?”
“That depends on what you give me. If you promise
York, perhaps I may give you a guinea.”
“What! then you are a red coat? Well, I do declare,
I dreamt so the night after to-morrow. Hah!
hah! hah! how strange it is that my dreams always
come true. Isn't it, honey dear?”
“Pshaw! let me pass, good woman?”
“Not till I've told your fortune, and earned my
guinea. Come, honey—hold out your hand, that's the
book of fate.” Here she snatched his hand, before he
was aware, and looking him full in the face, with a
deal of precious mummery, began her prognostics.
“Ah! what do I see here? Here is G, stands for
gallows; here is S, stands for spy—and here is a twisted
rope, that stands for hanging; and here—you'll not
live long, my friend, you'll not live long.” And she
shook her head with awful solemnity.
“Out of my way, you hag, and let me pass, or I'll ride
over you!”
“Well, I declare, the more I look at you, the more
faith I have in my dream. You've got the most hanging
look, honey dear, of any one I almost ever saw. The
gallows will be your end, so sure as your life had a
beginning. You'll dance upon nothing, without a fiddle,
while I stand by and sing hey diddle, diddle.”
Here she practised divers grotesque evolutions, taking
care to keep always directly before the horse. “My
guinea, sweet sir, my golden guinea.”
“Alas! poor crazy idiot! what a fool was I to suppose
she meant anything by her predictions. Here is
something, though not a guinea. Now let me pass,
my time is precious.” The traveller took out his purse,
and again it disclosed its golden store.
“Ha! ha! he! he!” and Hagar laughed like a sheer
idiot. “La! what beautiful shiners! The Yankee
officers have no such pretty pictures as these. I swear,
you shan't stir from this spot, till you give me a guinea.
I'll keep it for a love token, to put me in mind of you
after you come to the gallows, as you certainly will do,
soon. Come, honey dear—you won't want your money
long.”
“What are you about? let go my bridle!”
“A guinea, sweet sir—a golden guinea!”
“Let go, I say; or by heaven, I'll gallop over your
body!”
A struggle now ensued. The traveller spurred his
horse, and Hagar clung to the bridle, at the risk of
being crushed under the feet of the startled animal,
who reared and plunged furiously. At this moment,
the report of a gun was distinctly heard. Hagar relinquished
the bridle, and the rider dashing forward,
disappeared in an instant. “I've told his fortune,”
said she, chuckling, and pursuing her course in another
direction.
The traveller rode on, perplexed not a little at the
behaviour of the crack-brained guide, which he was
at a loss whether to ascribe to folly, madness, or cunning.
Had he been inclined to superstition, this second
prediction would have startled him, for he remembered
that, just previous to his leaving home, for the new
world, he had accompanied a party of gay young people
to a famous fortune-teller, and that on inspecting
his hand, the sybil had announced, that he was going
to a distant country, beyond the sea, where it would
thought he, “but who knows? stranger things
have happened in this topsy-turvy world. It is, however,
quite impossible I should be known to this shedevil,
that thus besets me. There is no harm, however,
in a little more speed.” And thus communing
with himself, he spurred his horse into a gallop.
He had now passed all the American posts; a
few miles' ride would bring him to Kingsbridge, and
the great object of his mission be accomplished. Congratulating
himself on the favourable prospects before
him, he proceeded onward with a light heart, until
coming to a little rustic bridge, which crossed a brook
intersecting the road, the flooring of which, being
somewhat loose and decayed, caused him to slacken
his pace, his reins were suddenly seized by a man,
who darted from the wood at the roadside, and ordered
him to stop at his peril.
Thrown off his guard, for a moment, by this action,
so totally unexpected, the traveller hastily asked, “Are
you from above, or below?” two phrases usually employed
to designate the American and British armies,
one of which was in the Highlands, the other occupying
the city of New York. John, for he it was, warily
answered, “From below;” at which, the other expressed
great satisfaction, declaring himself of the same
party, and adding that his business was urgent; that
he was exceedingly anxious to get to head-quarters,
and that he desired to be permitted to proceed without
a moment's delay.
“I regret, sir,” said John, “that your business is so
urgent, as it is absolutely necessary to detain you a
little longer.”
“By what authority, sir? and who are you?”
“A rebel!”
“Let me pass! let go my reins!” exclaimed the traveller,
making a violent effort to ride over him.”
“Dismount this instant, or I will pull you from your
horse! be you whom you may, rebel, or red coat, soldier,
or citizen—dismount!”
“If I were armed, I would dispute your commands,
my friend; but as that is not the case, I must resort to
peaceful measures. Can you read? do you know
what this means?” He then drew forth a paper,
which he handed to John, who, after looking it over,
respectfully, yet firmly, addressed him as follows:
“This paper, as well as I can judge, sir, is genuine.
But not being acquainted with the hand-writing of
General Arnold, you must excuse me if I am not quite
satisfied. You are here under circumstances to excite
great suspicion. You have acknowledged yourself an
enemy, and displayed great satisfaction at hearing I
belonged to your party, for which there was no occasion,
had you been on lawful business, with a pass in
your pocket. I must know more, before I let you go.
You must accompany me into this wood, and submit
to further examination.”
“By what authority, sir?”
“By the authority which God gives to every man
defending his rights and his country.”
“Rebellious cant!” muttered the traveller; “but you
pass. Do you know the consequences?”
“Not exactly; but be they what they may, for this
once, I am willing to incur them. Dismount, sir! or
I shall be under the necessity of forcing you, although
I wish to avoid it, if possible. There is no use in hesitating;
for I must, and will be satisfied.”
Perceiving the traveller still hesitated, he quietly
led his horse into the wood, where he was still more
surprised to find our hero's two companions, with
whom it had been previously concerted not to appear,
except at a given signal. His impression was, that
he had fallen into the hands of one of those lawless
bands of marauders, whose exploits between the lines
were pretty notorious to both parties.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I am in your power; but I
trust you mean no violence to my person.”
“Do you take us for robbers, sir?” replied John. “I
assure you we are honest men, as times go, and will
take nothing from you, but what you have no right to
carry.”
“Very well; but before you proceed, be good enough
to examine that paper once more. I assure you it
came from the general's own hands.”
“It certainly appears to be a pass from General
Arnold, to John Anderson. Is that your name, sir?”
said John, eyeing him keenly.
“John Anderson is my—I am called by that name,”
replied the traveller, with some little hesitation.
“On your honour, sir?”
“On my honour,” and he coloured deeply.
“Excuse me, sir,” observed John, after a little reflection,
to be a gentleman. But as I observed before, you are
here under very doubtful circumstances; and your
behaviour at the moment I arrested you, was also calculated
to excite suspicion. Our country has many
secret enemies, and the intentions of the commander-in-chief
are frequently known to the enemy, long before
they are publicly manifested. I must, and will
be satisfied before we part; and for this purpose, I
hope you will quietly submit to a search which shall
be made with as little offence as possible.”
Finding it would be vain to resort to resistance
or pursuasion, the traveller submitted, and a search
commenced, which ended in the discovery of nothing
which threw any light on his character or mission.
He then inquired whether it was their pleasure to
permit him to proceed on his way, again repeating the
expression of his anxiety to reach the city, where he
had business of great consequence.
“One moment, sir,” replied John, “there is one part
of your dress we have neglected. Be good enough to
permit us to pull off your boots.”
“My boots! surely, gentlemen, you don't mean to insult
me?” exclaiming the traveller hastily, and changing
colour.
“Why insult you more by searching your boots, than
any other portion of your dress? Come, sir—I'll be
your servant—sit down on this rock. It is useless to
resist, for I must and will know why you oppose
pulling off your boots, when you made no objection to
every other part of your dress being examined.”
“May-be the gentleman has got no stockings on; it
David.
The traveller seeing it must be so, sat down, and
put forth his left leg.
“The right, if you please, sir,” said John.
“Where is the difference? take this, or none.”
“Have done with this trifling, sir,” cried the other,
impatiently, and seizing the right boot, drew it off in
a twinkling. Then holding up and shaking it, a thin
packet of papers fell out, which, on examination, proved
to consist of a plan of the works at West Point; the
disposition of the American forces; directions for attacking
them with advantage, together with a letter
from General Arnold, the commander of that most important
post, stipulating its delivery on the appearance
of the British army under Sir Henry Clinton. The
magnitude and importance of this discovery, was fully
comprehended by John and his companions; while,
during the examination of the papers, the traveller
sat apparently reflecting on the best means of escaping
from the very serious predicament in which he now
felt himself involved.
“Well, Mr. Anderson, what say you to this?” said
John, after the examination was over.
“Thus much, sir. Here is my purse, which is pretty
well filled, and here is my watch, which is worth at
least fifty guineas. Take these, give me the papers,
and let me go. You seem to be poor men by your
dress, and it will be a long time before you will earn
as much by opposing your lawful sovereign. But I
can promise you ten, aye, fifty times as much, if you
will accompany me to head-quarters. Name your
“Honour! pray, Mr. Anderson, leave that out. There
may be honour among thieves, none among spies
and traitors. But let that pass. If you buy us, you
must pay well. None of your forty pieces for selling
our country to the king, and our souls to perdition.”
“What say you to a thousand guineas?”
“A good round sum, but not quite enough. In one
word, Mr. Anderson, the king cannot buy us. Do not
then believe us serious in thus bargaining for the destruction
of our country. These papers concerning
West Point, now almost the only stronghold of liberty,
your extreme anxiety to get to head-quarters at New
York, and the high bribe you offer, are all convincing
proofs that you are concerned in some treason of great
magnitude. Not five, nor ten, nor twenty thousand
guineas, could you lay them down here before us, shall
buy these papers or release your person. You go with
us to be delivered up at the nearest continental post.”
“You have only been bantering me, then?”
“I wished to estimate the importance of Mr. Anderson,”
replied our hero, who was now fully satisfied
that was not his name.
“Are you all of one mind, gentlemen?”
“Exactly,” said David; “we don't mind selling the
produce of our land, when the red coats, the tories,
and the Skinners leave us any; but we will never sell
our country. You must go with us, sir.”
“Well, well, take me where you will, but treat me
like a gentleman.”
“Gentleman!” cried John, warmly; “do you call it
know you do? to appear under false colours and a
feigned name? to sneak in and out of your enemy's
camp under cover of night? to league with traitors in
a base conspiracy against a nation's freedom? to become
a spy, and then try to escape the consequences
by bribing poor but honest men to betray their cause
and their country? You shall be treated kindly,
though your people have seldom set us the example.”
The traveller seemed somewhat surprised, rather
than offended, at hearing such language and such sentiments
from a plain country lad in homespun clothes,
and involuntarily entered on his defence.
“What I have done was in the course of my duty,
and I stand ready to answer it to my God, my king,
and my country. No more schooling, but take me
where you will. I am weary with a long journey,
will you trust me to ride?”
“You might run away from us, who are on foot.”
“Shoot me, if I attempt to escape; I pledge my—”
“No more of honour, sir. You have deceived us
once already. On condition, however, you take your
chance of three bullets in case you attempt to escape,
you may ride. Come, boys, now for head-quarters.”
The traveller mounted his horse, and escorted by the
three young lads of Westchester, turned back towards
the north, when he had much rather have been “serving
his sovereign in the south.” His subsequent fate
has become a part of the history of those times, and
will not soon be forgotten. He perished on the scaffold,
a victim to the stern, but just laws of war; yet
his fate may almost be envied, since the very people
necessity of the sacrifice, while his countrymen, in
their admiration of his loyalty, forgot that by acting
as a spy he forfeited the character of a soldier. It was
remarked by one of his most illustrious cotemporaries,
“that never man suffered death with more justice, or
deserved it less;” and it may be said with equal truth,
that had he lived to the utmost age of man, he would
in all probability never have acquired by his exploits
the fame he has gained by his misfortunes. He has
become, as it were, the hero of one of the brightest
pages of our history; and the sympathy bestowed on
his fate, has, in a great degree, superseded the glory
which justly belongs to the three youthful volunteers
of Westchester, who discovered the treason of which
he was one of the instruments, and spurned the bribes
he offered for its concealment.
| CHAPTER X. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty | |