 | CHAPTER III. The forsaken |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
Who knocks?
Curvetto.
Why 'tis I, knave.
Frisco.
Then, knave, knock there still.
Curvetto.
Whut! open the door.
Blurt Master Constable.
At this period there was a slight wooden bridge over
Darby creek, instead of the substantial stone one that
now occupies its place, and on the night that our narrative
commences, the villagers were kept in a continued
state of alarm, occasioned by the troopers passing and
repassing. Corporal Drone, who was ever ready to
do a good turn, where there was a prospect of being
repaid tenfold, after quitting the Hive, had repaired to
assist Mrs. Swain in packing away and burying her
valuables, to protect them from depredators, in case it
should be necessary to remove to the city. Jurian also
assisted in this precautionary step, and towards midnight
his fostermother retired, leaving our hero and
the corporal to give the alarm should the enemy approach,
not knowing at what hour the British troops,
flushed with victory, might direct their march towards
the metropolis.
Two companions were perhaps never more ill-assorted
for a night-watch than Jurian and the corporal. The
latter, who held himself in high estimation, and had
arrived at the satisfactory conclusion, that man is still
and his coat of the finest texture, assayed repeatedly to
draw his companion into conversation, but the attempt
was fruitless. The mind of Jurian was employed upon
higher matters than the corporal, upon whom he condescended
to bestow an occasional vacant look or a monosyllable
at most. Drone at length became tired,
lighted his pipe, and as volumes of smoke encircled his
head, he was soon in that state which nearly constitutes
the mortal career of the mass of mankind—a total absence
of mental action, even while the physical powers
retain their functions unrelaxed.
In the midst of their dreamings, a horse was heard
crossing the bridge at full speed, and approaching the
house, which was immediately succeeded by a violent
knocking at the door, and a voice demanding admittance.
The corporal started up, and drawing his sword,
approached the door.
“Who are you,” he cried, “who disturb us at this
unseasonable hour?”
“Open the door, you hound, and let me in.”
“Nay, answer me, or we parley with a two inch plank
between us. If you are satisfied with your side of the
house, I am with mine, so good night to you.”
“Curse your hospitality! Open the door—I am
M`Crea.”
The door was unbarred, when a man of about fifty
years of age entered. He was dressed in a shabby
suit of regimentals, with an old three-cornered hat,
mounted upon the top of a foxy wig, which had a singularly
comical effect when contrasted with a sedate
countenance, strongly marked, care-worn, and indicative
of intense thought. He had a rapier by his side,
which, like that of Hudibras, had eaten its way through
the end of the scabbard, and his feet, which were cased
in a long pair of horseman-boots, evinced a similar token
of their impatience. Still there were the remains
of former beauty in that austere countenance, nor was
graceful movements of a polished man were discernible.
“What, doctor, is it you?” exclaimed Drone, raising
his lamp to the stranger's face. “Why are you from
Brandywine at such a time as this, sir?”
“Out of pure patriotism, for if some unlucky bullet
had brought me my quietus, half the army, you know,
must inevitably perish for want of my assistance, so I
reluctantly forced myself from the field of battle.”
“Humph!” muttered Drone, “he is disposed to
serve his country much after my fashion.”
“This room,” continued M`Crea, addressing Jurian,”
“looks rather desolate, compared to its appearance
when I last beheld it.”
“True, sir, the furniture has been stowed away.”
“Talking of my last visit;—your worthy father and
myself became as merry on that occasion as Bacchus,
Silenus, and their crew, when they entered the city of
— no matter for the name of the city. But, unless
my memory fails me, we did not more than half finish
the last bottle. I have had a weary race of it, boy,
from the field, without stopping at a single baiting
place. Old Pegasus flew like his namesake, with Homer
on his back. He is in a foam, and I am as dry as
a cartouche-box. It is time to replenish the radical
moisture, or this human machine will soon become disorganized.”
Every man has his hobby, and surgeon M`Crea
rode his as unmercifully as any philosopher since the
days of Paracelsus. Being something of a chemist, and
having a taste for literature, and tone of thinking of the
darker ages, he was not an absolute disbeliever in the
existence of the philosopher's stone, but as it was not
exactly in his line, he had not made many experiments
in order to its discovery. He contended that as every
thing in nature is created by combination, man would
be unable to maintain his reason before the omnipotence
proportion of the different elements required to the success
of his experiments. The creations and annihilalations
he averred would be terrific in the extreme.
Our philosopher had for many years been studying to
arrive at the arcanum by which he would be enabled to
live forever, which he contended to be practicable by
admitting just such proportions of the various elements
into our systems as would mutually counteract any
injurious tendency that too great a proportion of one
might have upon the numberless organs necessary to
animal life. The philosopher, as he filled a cup, remarked
to Jurian—
“The human system is nothing more than a mechanical
machine, one part depending upon another; and
as long as each part be kept in repair the machine will
continue in motion—even to the end of time. The
only difficulty that presents itself is to keep the several
parts in repair, and this difficulty, I think, may easily be
surmounted by strict observance that the proper proportions
of solids and fluids, and conflicting gasses, be
admitted into the system. To the neglect of this all
important point, may the unreasonable brevity of human
life be attributed.”
“Still it is long enough for human purposes,” said
Jurian.
“Though i do not clearly understand his philosophy,”
said the corporal, “I must say, I never heard a
better excuse for drinking.” Saying which, he finished
the contents of the bottle.
“What news do you bring from the army, sir?”
“Melancholy. Our loss is a thousand at least, good
men and true. I spent the whole morning in plastering
up flesh wounds and extracting bullets. A sad vocation,
boy! Poor souls, every groan went to my heart. But,
mark me, and I will describe the order of battle to
you.” Saying which, he poured a few drops of liquor
upon the table, and dipping his finger into it, began to
the Brandywine—but we will make it a little stronger
stream. Now, sir, here are the heights on the east side
of the creek, where we were encamped, in order to
command the fording place. Here is the opposite
height, where general Maxwell was posted with about
one thousand light troops, who last night threw up a
slight breastwork, with the limbs of trees. By day-break
this morning we observed the enemy advancing
in two columns”—
“Never mind, sir, the order of the battalia; I take
but little interest in such matters, and you bid fair to be
exceedingly minute, though I dare swear you lay concealed
in a baggage-wagon during the whole engagement.”
“Had you lived in the days of ancient Rome,” replied
the surgeon, “they would have sent you to Delphos.”
“I am right, then?”
“Half right; but that is more than any of the
soothsayers of olden times. I was concealed in the
place you mention, which will account for the accuracy
of my description. A cool spectator, you know, will
see more of the game than one who plays, but I regret
to say, I was not lying perdu during the whole engagement.
At an early part of the day, I had the folly
to attend my corps to the field; you see the consequences.
An uncivil bullet came close to my ribs, and
has nearly destroyed the only coat that my doctorship
can boast of. I knew there was more lead where that
came from, but very few more coats where this came
from, so I leisurely marched off in search of a place
of safety, both for my coat and carcass.”
Jurian smiled at the recital, knowing the singularity
of the surgeon, and at the same time his unquestioned
courage, while the corporal strutted about the room,
and muttered to himself—
“I am a plain man, with nothing more than a good
history would not have had to record that he was found
concealed in a baggage-wagon.”
“You would have found it a snug berth, for all that,
corporal,” replied the surgeon, “and doubtless it would
prove more satisfactory to be reported thus, than among
the slain.” The corporal smiled as if in scorn of the
imputation; the surgeon continued,—“Go house old
Pegasus, who stands by the garden gate. I shall remain
here to-night, and by times in the morning, remove
Mistress Swain to the city, for there is no safety in
this place for a soldier's wife. And mark you, corporal,
give him half a gallon of grain, and twice as much
water—not a drop nor a grain more or less.”
“Why, sir, I think a double mess would not hurt him
in his present condition.”
“Death! you would make him dog's meat in a week,
corporal.”
“Not quite so soon, sir. You forget that he has as
many points as a Swede's fence after a north-easter.
It would take a month at least to make him fit for the
commons.”
“It is all owing to the unscientific mode of foddering
in the army,” replied M`Crea, as the corporal withdrew.
“Now, Jurian, we are alone, I will proceed in
my description of the battle.”
“Really, sir, you might as well recount the affair of
Marathon or Philippi. I have, as you know, but little
taste for military tactics.”
“But your patriotism I imagined would have awakened
a curiosity to learn the events of this day.”
“Sufficient for me, is it to learn the grand result
without troubling myself to glean the minute details.
But as to patriotism; it is a word more generally used
than understood, and the lives of very few of the many
who are held up to us as examples, present a practical
illustration of its meaning.”
“The name of the elder Brutus, alone, will refute
the position you have assumed.”
“True, he is often referred to as a character to excite
our admiration and respect, but his claims to that
distinction, it has often struck me, are exceedingly
questionable, and that he is indebted for the halo that
surrounds his name to the talents of the historian, and
the imagination of the reader. Was the sacrifice of
Titus an act of justice, or was it not the object of his
executioner to gild his own name for posterity with the
blood of his dearest son? Did the safety of Rome,
or the justice of the cause, require the blood of this
victim at the altar of liberty? No; he might have
lived without endangering the safety of Rome, and of
this Brutus was fully aware, before the fatal axe had
fallen, and while hundreds were supplicating him for
mercy. If we admire him as an inflexible statesman,
we must condemn him as an unnatural father, and,
indeed, this prominent act of his life is sufficient to
lead us to question whether the assumption of idiocy
had not some foundation in reality. Bring forth another
model, for this, clothed in his gory robes, is not for me.”
“I will then ask you, in the language of a popular
poet,” said M`Crea—
I mean that Brutus, who, in open senate,
Stabb'd the first Cæsar that usurp'd the world,
A gallant man?”
“This question of Pierre's,” replied Jurian, “is
usually answered in the affirmative. He is lauded as a
patriot, philosopher, and virtuous man; but at the time
of doing the act that emblazoned his memory, he knew
that he was killing his best friend; nay, believed he
was planting a dagger in the bosom of his own father;
exactly reversing the nature of the crime that has immortalized
the first of the name of Brutus;—father for
son; son for father. Such being the fact, his speck of
patriotism is lost sight of when compared with his unnatural
offence. Though I have never experienced a
father's love, and perhaps the best feelings of my nature
are still slumbering in my bosom, I must beg you to call
prototype for me. Murder his own father, and yet
held up as a praiseworthy example to the world! I'll
none of him.” As he referred to his own deserted
condition, his voice assumed a melancholy tone, that
did not escape the notice of M`Crea.
“What think you, then, of Minturnæ's exile?” continued
the surgeon. “From your opposition to received
opinions, doubtless he was a patriot to your own
mind.”
“And so he was. The records of the world present
not a character parallel with that of old Marius. True,
those who peruse alone Plutarch's prejudiced narrative,
will pronounce him a monster in human shape, without
one redeeming quality, still we find that at one period,
he had his country's good nearest at heart; that the
people have seldom had a more thoroughgoing champion;
oligarchy a more determined foe. And if the
true patriot became a monster and a misanthrope, we
must attribute the change to the ingratitude of Rome,
for he was not such until a price was set upon his head,
and he was hunted by mercenaries through the very
land that his valour had saved from barbarous invasion.”
“So much for Marius; what of Catiline?”
“I am half inclined to believe the assertion of old
Renault,” replied Jurian, smiling, “that he was a gallant
man, `though story wrong his fame.”'
“And upon the same principle,” said the surgeon,
“doubtless you will maintain that `Collatine's fair love,
Lucrece the chaste,' has built her reputation upon a
very problematical basis?”
“And so she has. Although her chastity has become
a proverb, yet it must be admitted she sacrificed
the substance for the shadow, and preferred actual pollution
to dying unstained, with a charge of pollution attached
to her name. But she may have been an able
polemic in these matters, and supported the doctrine of
free agency, without which there can be neither sin nor
virtue.”
“Thy mind has been strangely warped, young man;
however, I do not like you the worse on that account,
for I am not disposed myself to travel altogether in the
beaten track.”
“Few flowers, sir, spring up in the common highway.
Give me the broad field to wander in, where I
may choose my own road.”
The corporal now returned from the stable, and
M`Crea having satisfied himself that his instructions
had been carefully followed, rested his head upon the
table, and being overcome with fatigue, soon sounded
his deep-toned clarion. Drone, after examining the
bottle, and finding it empty, also prepared himself for
repose in a corner of the room, while Jurian threw
himself in the old captain's arm-chair, and soon was
lost in that doubtful state, between sleeping and waking,
in which the gloom of reality casts a deep shade
over the bright visions of unrestrained imagination.
| CHAPTER III. The forsaken | |