University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The good service performed by the three young
farmers of Westchester, was received by their country
with a burst of grateful applause. They were
thanked by Washington in the presence of the army;
the glorious Congress of that trying time unanimously
passed a vote of thanks, and decreed that a medal
should be presented to each one, bearing the honourable
motto of “Fidelity.” A pension was also granted
them for life, and to these testimonials of national
gratitude was added the donation of a fine farm to
each from their native state.

John, who had necessarily been detained as a witness
on the trial of the traveller, whose capture produced
such important consequences to himself and his
country, was now exceedingly impatient to return
home. Besides his anxiety about the good old couple

there, he now felt himself authorized to claim the
promise of the old continental, and to aspire to his mistress
at least on equal terms. The moment he was
permitted, he left the army at Tappan, crossed the
river, and full of throbbing anticipations, bent his
steps towards the old stone house.

Leaving him on his road, let us once more turn to
the affairs of the colonel and his daughter, whose current
of domestic happiness, to say the truth, had not
lately ran quite so smoothly as was wont in days of
yore. Jane had lost much of her cheerfulness, and
her step was not so lightsome. She was given to
long fits of melancholy musing, and long, lonesome
rambles of evening, along the little river which ran
through the domains of her father, who many a time
and oft, got out of all his stock of patience, which in
truth was not great. He was, in fact, one of those
persons, who, instead of sympathising with sorrow or
low spirits, prefer to frighten them away by falling
into a passion, and railing at their indulgence.

“Well, moppet,” said he, as he came up in high
good-humour, having caught a fat mole in his trap,
for the first time in his life, as is believed; “well—but
Thunder and Mars! what are you sitting there for,
like a toad in a hole, moping and mewling about nothing?
Thinking, I suppose, of that proud, beggarly
puppy, John, who, I understand, has been absent for
two or three weeks past, nobody knows where. I
should not be at all surprised if he had got into the
hospital-ship, again.”

“Heaven forbid!” replied Jane.

“What business has the blockhead to be there, when

a soldier can always get killed if he likes? Before
they should take me prisoner, I'd be cut into mincemeat.
Your old continentals are not to be caught like
rabbits without fighting. Thunder and Mars! if I only
was the man I used to be, in the old French war, I'd
offer my services to drive the red coats out of New
York in less than no time.”

“But would you leave me, and all your improvements?”
asked she, with one of her old-fashioned
smiles.

“Who thinks of improvement, except in military
discipline, when his country is in danger. Thunder
and Mars! a soldier's life is the life after all. It is
only after hearing the bullets whistle about your ears,
and dodging death a hundred times, that a man may
be said to enjoy life. One hour of jollification after a
victory, is worth all the regular hum-drum, sleepy
frolics, in a whole life. Blood and fire! if I was only
twenty or thirty years younger!” and the old continental
stumped about the room, vociferating—

“Ah! Jane, if you had only heard the immortal
Wolfe sing that song, it would have made a man of
you.”

“I am glad to see you in such spirits, sir,” said Jane,
with a deep sigh.

“I'm glad to see you in such spirits, sir,” echoed the
old continental, mimicking her; “Jane, you tell a—
fib—you'd be glad to see me snivelling, and sighing,

and turning up the whites of my eyes, like a duck in
thunder, I know you would. You want me to sympathise
with you, as you call it. Confound all sympathy,
say I; it only encourages people to make fools of
themselves, by being miserable, when they should be
forgetting their miseries.”

“Father, who is that coming up the road, yonder?”
asked Jane, pointing in that direction.

“Where? Why, yes, it is that roving, cheating, lying
ragamuffin, Mangham, the pedlar, tinker, and
Jack of all trades, and both sides to boot.”

“Ah! so it is. Perhaps he brings us news of—”
and here the young maiden suddenly checked herself.

“He bring news! He never put two syllables together,
without a lie between them. He is no more
to be depended on, than the almanac, or Rivington's
Royal Gazette. If he comes in, I insist on your not
asking him a single question about that magnanimous
puppy, John. Yes!” continued the colonel, rubbing
his hands, “yes, there he is, coming through the gate;
now—hem—now he will cheat me to a certainty.”

The tinker approached, and looking into the window,
asked, “May I enter your domicilio, colonel?”

“Aye, aye, come in, and take me in; for that follows
as a matter of course.”

The itinerant trader entered, exhibiting a long, lean,
raw-boned, hard-featured figure, with a countenance
of mingled roguery and archness, dressed in a leather
apron, short breeches without buckles at the knee,
woollen stockings, and carrying a tinker's establishment
on his back. He spoke as if he could not stop

his tongue when it once began wagging, and fidgeted
about all the while he was talking.

“Any spoons to run, pots to patch, kettles to mend,
anything in my way, colonel? do it—do it—done—as
quick as wink.”

“Nothing now, Mangham. But where have you
been, and where did you last come from, hey?”

“Why, I have been to New York, bless your heart,
mended six dozen pewter spoons for Sir Henry, patched
a copper kettle for the Baroness Knyphausen, ground
a pair of scissors for the baron to clip his whiskers,
bribed a sentinel with a paper of pins, and came off
with full pockets and colours flying.”

“Well, well, we all know how much gospel you
preach; but tell me now, seriously, what news do you
bring?”

“Oh! lots of news, colonel. Sir Henry is deeply
smitten with a fat Dutch alderman's wife, who can't
speak a word of English, and sends her letters every
day, which she brings to her husband to read for her.
The red coats pay their debts with sterling promises,
twenty shillings in the pound; and old Cunningham
was detected the other day doing a kindness to a rebel
prisoner.”

“Come, come, Mangham, I can swallow anything
but that. He would sooner be caught picking his
pocket, or stealing his allowance. But Thunder and
Mars! have done with your jokes, and give us a little
gospel. I'll not let you cheat me, if you don't.”

“Well, then, seriously, colonel, there is great news—
news that will make you stare like a stuck pig—news
that will make your queue stand up on end—news

that will strike you dumb, deaf, and blind, colonel—
news—”

“Tinker!” exclaimed the colonel, raising his cane,
“if you don't tell what it is without any more of
your confounded rigmarole, I'll make the fire fly faster
out of your pate than the lies from your mouth. Quick,
sir, out with it, or begone about your business.”

“Patience, patience, colonel, till I collect my ideas.
It is the greatest news, the most extraordinary, the—”

“Now do, Mr. Mangham, tell us at once, won't you?
I am dying with curiosity,” said Jane.

“Oh! when a lady requests it, by all means. Well,
then, the news is—and yet I dare say you have heard,
—you must have heard it before now, though it's a
great secret, only known to people that know everything.
I happened to hear them talking it over a bottle
after dinner, at Sir Henry's, when they were all a
little in for it, and didn't see me popping my head in
every now and then.”

“Tinker!” cried the colonel, flourishing his cane.

“Well, colonel, first and foremost, Arnold has turned
traitor.”

“You lie! you long-tongued, cheating rascal! He,
traitor! the bravest fellow in the whole continental
army, except Bloody Anthony, by land and by water.
Say that again, and by the Lord Harry I'll set the dogs
on you. He, traitor!”

“Yes, colonel, as black as an old iron tea-kettle.
He has sold his country to the enemy, and his soul to
the—hem! mus'nt swear before ladies. It's all signed,
sealed, and delivered, army, cannon, West Point, and
all.”

“Delivered! why, good God! what do you mean?”

“No, not exactly delivered, but no thanks to him,
as good luck would have it.”

“Now look, you tinker, here is a guinea, if you will
tell the truth right straight forward, in as few words
as possible. Take it, and speak the truth; or lie, and
I'll send you to perdition.”

“A bargain, colonel—and now I tell you seriously
what I heard, though not where I said I did. I heard
it all along the road, as I came up, and read it in general
orders. By the way, your neighbour's grandson,
over yonder, had a finger in the pie.”

“He?” ejaculated Jane, turning pale.

“Yes—it seems he and two other young men have
taken a great spy, with plans of the fortifications at
West Point, and a letter from General Arnold, promising
to give them all up to Sir Henry, if he would
only come and take them. They say John and the
other brave lads, have well-nigh saved their country.
General Washington has thanked them; Congress has
thanked them, and voted them a medal, with the word,
`Fidelity,' on the back of it, with a pension besides;
and the state of New York has given them each a
thumping farm, because they were offered thousands
of guineas to let the spy go, but they refused, like honest
fellows, to sell their country, and carried him to
head-quarters.”

“Tinker, on thy soul, is all this true?”

“True as gospel, colonel.”

“Hold up your head, my darling—don't look so pale,”
said the old continental to his daughter. “Why don't
you laugh, sing, and dance like me? He won't refuse

you now, the conceited blockhead. Fol, lol, de rol—
sing, dance, laugh, and be merry, I say—huzza for the
Westchester boys! Thunder and Mars! this beats old
Ti, out and out. I'll have such a wedding—I'll have
such a row! I'll make the whole township reel and
sing, dance, drink, and fight any man that won't keep
me company. Tinker, you shall be one of the groomsmen,
for bringing such good news. Hey diddle, diddle!
d—n this old timber leg! Why, Jane—you look as if
you were sorry for this!”

“He won't think of me, now, father; he is such a
great man, and yet I could weep for joy.”

“Weep for a fiddlestick! sing, dance, frisk, and be
merry, like me; that's the way to be joyful. I never
wept for joy in all my life, and hold it a crying sin to
fly in the face of good luck in that way. It is what
I call ungrateful. Fol, de rol, lol! why, soldiers,
why?”

“Father,” said Jane, the colour returning to her
cheek, “may I walk over to our neighbours, this
morning? I heard the good woman was not well.
Now don't look so droll at me, sir, you know he is not
there, and I should like to be the first to tell them such
good news.”

“Well—well—go, in God's name. It is a pleasant
thing to carry happy tidings. Go, and tell the old
folks I will call over and see them this evening—no,
to-morrow morning, and mind you come back before
dark.”

The daughter took her way towards the old stone
house, in a tumult of conflicting feelings; which,
as they will readily occur to minds of kindred delicacy,

and all others would be incapable of comprehending,
we shall forbear to analyze. She often lingered on
her way, and more than once resolved to return. She
stopped along the sequestered path which followed
the windings of the stream, to read the past, and reflect
on the future. The pride of woman at one moment
revolted at the possibility of a suspicion that she was
throwing herself in the way of one who had declined
the acceptance of her hand; but this feeling was almost
instantly quelled by the conviction which had
only slept for one moment in her heart, that she was
only the dearer to him for his rejection. She had long
since done full justice to his motives, and schooled her
heart to await the event, whatever it might be. Still,
had she not been confident that John was far away,
she would most assuredly have denied herself the
pleasure she anticipated from being the bearer of
news, which she well knew would be received with
joy and gratitude.

Thus thinking, and thus feeling, she arrived at the
old mansion, where she was kindly welcomed by the
aged woman, who soon alluded to the long absence
of her grandson, saying that he had promised never to
leave them more; but that she knew he must be either
serving his country, or had become a victim to her
cause. The old man, as usual, was rambling about,
talking to himself, and picking up sticks, with his bare
head exposed to the sun and the wind. The ties of
nature, and the recollections of the past, were now as
nothing to him. He knew those he was accustomed
to see every day, but he knew not who they were,
and received the attentions necessary to his forlorn

condition, without consciousness, and without gratitude.
He entered the house soon after the arrival of
Jane, with his bundle of sticks, which he carefully laid
on the hearth, and then sat down, talking occasionally
to himself, while Jane was relating the story of his
grandson. It was received with tempered joy by the
old woman, and listless unconsciousness by the poor,
stricken patriarch, whose brain seemed to have retained
but one single impression. His ear caught the
word tory, and he noticed it by repeating his accustomed
saying, “Yes, yes—a tory is a highway robber.”
It may afford some insight into the operations of
the human mind, to state, that among the few books
which the old man was accustomed to pore over, in his
better days, was a history of the reign of Queen Anne,
where a similar derivation is given to the name of tory.

Thus passed the time, until just as Jane was preparing
to return home, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching,
and her heart began to palpitate in her bosom.
She hastily retreated through an opposite door, just
as John entered by another, and caught only a glance at
her shadow as she disappeared. He supposed it was
the little waiting maid, and if he thought at all on the
subject, his feelings at once took another direction, as
he once more received the welcome and blessing of
his grandmother.

“You need not tell me where you have been, my
son; we know it all, and thank God for it.”

“And how and where did you hear it, mother?”

“Why, from Jane Hammond, there;” for the old
dame, seeing none of the clearest, had not observed
her silent retreat.

“Jane Hammond, there—where?” cried John, eagerly
looking round.

“Why, I declare! why she was here just the moment
you came; but the sly little toad has ran away, I see.”

If John had not ran after her, he would be no longer
any hero of ours; and we should have left his future
adventures at the bottom of the pool of oblivion. He
did follow, not on a snail pace, but a hand-gallop, and
overtook our heroine just as she entered the sequestered
path they had so often trodden in days of yore.
She felt him coming—she distinguished his panting
breath, and heard him at length whisper:

“Jane—dearest Jane, don't run away from me.
Stay—dearest Jane, and hear what I have to say in
excuse for my former ingratitude. When you hear
all, you will forgive me, and once more take me to
your heart. Was it indeed you, whose shadow I saw
as I came home?”

Jane could not tell whether it was herself or not;
but it was, perhaps, just as well. In a little time, he
felt the soft pressure of a willing hand, which continued
locked in his; and would have convinced any one
but an infidel, that it was no other than her. One
look from John had satisfied her pride and her love.

“I know all,” said she, in a low, soft, silvery voice,
“and now it is my turn to be proud.”

“Ah! Jane—listen to me seriously. My pride has
had a fall, and I have suffered severely for it. But
now—now—I can ask you without permission; will
you trust your happiness to my care? Will you be
my dear, dear wife?”

“You will not refuse me again?”

“Never! unless I become unworthy of you. Answer
me, dearest Jane!”

The answer of Jane was made in a whisper, which
was neither overheard by the echoes, or blabbed by the
tell-tale zephyrs, and for that reason it is somewhat
doubtful. Some old ladies were of opinion, at the
time, that it was conveyed by actions, rather than
words, and one went so far as to insinuate that it was
delivered in a kiss. Much may be said on both sides,
and we hold ourselves entirely uncommitted on this
point. All we know, is, that the lovers lost their way,
and were a long time before they found it again; so
that our hero, in order to beguile the tedious search,
was obliged to tell over all the particulars of his last
adventure, and its glorious consequences, either two
or three times; for there is here, also, some diversity
of opinion on this subject. We can only pledge ourselves
to what we know, which is, that whatever endearments
were mutually given and received, were
such, and such only, as became a modest maiden, and
an ardent lover, looking forward, with happy certainty,
to a speedy union of hands, as well as hearts. None
will doubt this, except those incapable of following
their example.