The Spy & Lionel Lincoln Read online

  “I trust I never forget the right,” said Sarah, emulating her sister in colour, and rising, under the pretence of avoiding the heat of the fire.

  Nothing occurred of any moment during the rest of the day; but in the evening Caesar reported that he had overheard voices in the room of Harper, conversing in a low tone. The apartment occupied by the traveller was the wing at the extremity of the building, opposite to the parlor in which the family ordinarily assembled; and it seems, that Caesar had established a regular system of espionage, with a view to the safety of his young master. This intelligence gave some uneasiness to all the members of the family; but the entrance of Harper himself, with the air of benevolence and sincerity which shone through his reserve, soon removed the doubts from the breast of all but Mr. Wharton. His children and sister believed Caesar to have been mistaken, and the evening passed off without any additional alarm.

  On the afternoon of the succeeding day, the party were assembled in the parlor around the tea-table of Miss Peyton, when a change in the weather occurred. The thin scud, that apparently floated but a short distance above the tops of the hills, began to drive from the west towards the east in astonishing rapidity. The rain yet continued to beat against the eastern windows of the house with fury: in that direction the heavens were dark and gloomy. Frances was gazing at the scene with the desire of youth to escape from the tedium of confinement, when, as if by magic, all was still. The rushing winds had ceased: the pelting of the storm was over—and, springing to the window, with delight pictured in her face, she saw a glorious ray of sunshine lighting the opposite wood. The foliage glittered with the chequered beauties of the October leaf—reflecting back from the moistened boughs the richest lustre of an American autumn. In an instant, the piazza, which opened to the south, was thronged with the inmates of the cottage. The air was mild, balmy, and refreshing—in the east, clouds, which might be likened to the retreating masses of a discomfited army, hung around the horizon in awful and increasing darkness. At a little elevation above the cottage, the thin vapour was still rushing towards the east with amazing velocity; while in the west the sun had broken forth and shed his parting radiance on the scene below, aided by the fullest richness of a clear atmosphere and a freshened herbage.—Such moments belong only to the climate of America, and are enjoyed in a degree proportioned to the suddenness of the contrast, and the pleasure we experience in escaping from the turbulence of the elements to the quiet of a peaceful evening, and an air still as the softest mornings in June.

  “What a magnificent scene!” said Harper in a low tone; “how grand! how awfully sublime! May such a quiet speedily await the struggle in which my country is engaged, and such a glorious evening follow the day of her adversity.”

  Frances, who stood next to him, alone heard the voice—turning in amazement from the view to the speaker, she saw him standing bare headed, erect, and with his eyes lifted to heaven; there was no longer the quiet which had seemed their characteristic, but they were lighted into something like enthusiasm, and a slight flush passed over his features.

  There can be no danger apprehended from such a man, thought Frances—such feelings belong only to the virtuous.

  The musings of the party were now interrupted by the sudden appearance of the pedlar. He had taken advantage of the first gleam of sunshine to hasten to the cottage. Heedless of wet or dry as it lay in his path, with arms swinging to and fro, and with his head bent forward of his body several inches, Harvey Birch approached the piazza, with a gait peculiarly his own—. It was the quick, lengthened pace of an itinerant vender of goods.

  “Fine evening,” said the pedlar, saluting the party without raising his eyes, “quite warm and agreeable for the season.”

  Mr. Wharton assented to the remark, and inquired kindly after the health of his father. Harvey heard him, and continued standing for some time in moody silence; but the question being repeated, he answered with a slight tremor in his voice—

  “He fails fast; old age and hardships will do their work.” The pedlar turned his face from the view of most of the family; but Frances noticed his glistening eyes and quivering lip, and, for the second time, Harvey rose in her estimation.

  The valley in which the residence of Mr. Wharton stood ran in a direction from North-west to South-east, and the house was placed on the side of a hill which terminated its length in the former direction. A small opening, occasioned by the receding of the opposite hill, and the fall of the land to the level of the tide water, afforded a view of the Sound* over the tops of the distant woods on its margin. The surface of the water, which had so lately been lashing the shores with boisterous fury, was already losing its ruffled darkness in the long and regular undulations that succeed a tempest, while the light air from the South-west was gently touching their summits, lending its feeble aid in stilling the waters. Some dark spots were now to be distinguished, occasionally rising into view, and again sinking behind the lengthened waves which interposed themselves to the sight. They were unnoticed by all but the pedlar. He had seated himself on the piazza, at a distance from Harper, and appeared to have forgotten the object of his visit. His roving eye, however, soon caught a glimpse of these new objects in the view, and he sprang up with alacrity, gazing intently towards the water. He changed his place—glanced his eye with marked uneasiness on Harper—and then said with great emphasis—

  “The rig’lars must be out from below.”

  “Why do you think so?” inquired Captain Wharton, eagerly; “God send it may be true; I want their escort in again.”

  “Them ten whale boats would not move so fast, unless they were better manned than common.”

  “Perhaps,” cried Mr. Wharton in alarm, “they are—they are continentals returning from the island.”

  “They look like rig’lars,” said the pedlar with meaning.

  “Look!” repeated the captain, “there is nothing but spots to be seen.”

  Harvey disregarded his observation, but seemed to be soliloquizing as he said, in an under tone—“They came out before the gale—have laid on the island these two days—horse are on the road—there will soon be fighting near us.” During this speech Birch several times glanced his eye towards Harper, with evident uneasiness, but no corresponding emotion betrayed any interest of that gentleman in the scene.—He stood in silent contemplation of the view, and seemed enjoying the change in the air. As Birch concluded, however, Harper turned to his host and mentioned, that his business would not admit of unnecessary delay; he would, therefore, avail himself of the fine evening to ride a few miles on his journey. Mr. Wharton made many professions of regret at losing so agreeable an inmate; but was too mindful of his duty not to speed the parting guest, and orders were instantly given to that effect.

  The uneasiness of the pedlar increased in a manner for which nothing apparent could account; his eye was constantly wandering towards the lower end of the vale, as if in expectation of some interruption from that quarter. At length Caesar appeared leading the noble beast which was to bear the weight of the traveller. The pedlar officiously assisted to tighten the girths, and fasten the blue cloak and valisse to the mail straps.

  Every preparation being completed, Harper proceeded to take his leave. To Sarah and her aunt he paid his compliments with ease and kindness—but when he came to Frances, he paused a moment, while his face assumed an expression of more than ordinary benignity. His eye repeated the blessing which had before fallen from his lips, and the girl felt her cheeks glow and her heart beat with a quicker pulsation, as he spoke his adieus. There was a mutual exchange of polite courtesy between the host and his parting guest; but as Harper frankly offered his hand to Captain Wharton, he remarked, in a manner of great solemnity—

  “The step you have undertaken is one of much danger, and disagreeable consequences to yourself may result from it—in such a case I may have it in my power to prove the gratitude I owe your family for its kindness.
”

  “Surely, sir,” cried the father, losing sight of delicacy in apprehension for his child, “you will keep secret the discovery which your being in my house has enabled you to make.”

  Harper turned quickly to the speaker, and then losing the sternness which had begun to gather on his countenance, he answered mildly, “I have learnt nothing in your family, sir, of which I was ignorant before—but your son is safer from my knowledge of his visit, than he would be without it.”

  He bowed to the whole party, and without taking any notice of the pedlar other than by simply thanking him for his attentions, mounted his horse, and riding steadily and gracefully through the little gate, was soon lost behind the hill which sheltered the valley to the northward.

  The eyes of the pedlar followed the retiring figure of the horseman so long as it continued within view, and as it disappeared from his sight, he drew a long and heavy sigh, as if relieved from a load of apprehension. The Whartons had meditated in silence on the character and visit of their unknown guest for the same period, when the father approached Birch, and observed—

  “I am yet your debtor, Harvey, for the tobacco you were so kind as to bring me from the city.”

  “If it should not prove so good as the first,” replied the pedlar, fixing a last and lingering look in the direction of Harper’s route, “it is owing to the scarcity of the article.”

  “I like it much,” continued the other; “but you have forgotten to name the price.”

  The countenance of the trader changed, and losing its expression of deep care in a natural acuteness, he answered—

  “It is hard to say what ought to be the price; I believe I must leave it to your own generosity.”

  Mr. Wharton had taken a hand well filled with the images of Carolus III. from his pocket, and now extended it towards Birch with three of the pieces between his finger and thumb. Harvey’s eyes twinkled as he contemplated the reward; and rolling over in his mouth a large quantity of the article in question, coolly stretched forth his hand into which the dollars fell with a most agreeable sound; but not satisfied with the transient music of their fall, the pedlar gave each piece in succession a ring on the stepping-stone of the piazza, before he consigned it to the safe keeping of a huge deer-skin purse, which vanished from the sight of the spectators so dexterously, that not one of them could have told about what part of his person it was secreted.

  This very material point in his business so satisfactorily completed, the pedlar rose from his seat on the floor of the piazza, and approached to where Captain Wharton stood, supporting his sisters on either arm, as they listened with the lively interest of affection, to his conversation.

  The agitation of the preceding incidents had caused such an expenditure of the juices which had become necessary to the mouth of the pedlar, that a new supply of the weed was required before he could turn his attention to business of lesser moment. This done, he asked abruptly—

  “Captain Wharton, do you go in to night?”

  “No!” said the captain laconically, and looking at his lovely burdens with great affection.—“Mr. Birch, would you have me leave such company so soon, when I may never enjoy it again.”

  “Brother!” said Frances, “jesting on such a subject is cruel.”

  “I rather guess,” continued the pedlar coolly, “now the storm is over, the Skinners may be moving; you had better shorten your visit, Captain Wharton.”

  “Oh!” cried the British officer, “a few guineas will buy off those rascals at any time should I meet them. No—no—Mr. Birch, here I stay until morning.”

  “Money could not liberate Major André,” said the pedlar drily.

  Both the sisters now turned to the captain in alarm, and the elder observed—

  “You had better take the advice of Harvey—rest assured, brother, his opinion in such matters ought not to be disregarded.”

  “Yes,” added the younger, “if, as I suspect, Mr. Birch assisted you to come here—your safety—our happiness, dear Henry, requires you to listen to him now.”

  “I brought myself out, and can take myself in,” said the captain positively; “our bargain went no farther than to procure my disguise, and to let me know when the coast was clear, and in the latter particular you were mistaken, Mr. Birch.”

  “I was,” said the pedlar with some interest, “and the greater is the reason why you should get back to night—the pass I gave you will serve but once.”

  “Cannot you forge another?”

  The pale cheek of the trader showed an unusual colour, but he continued silent, with his eye fixed on the ground, until the young man added with great positiveness—“here I stay this night, come what will.”

  “Captain Wharton,” said the pedlar with great deliberation and marked emphasis, “beware a tall Virginian, with huge whiskers—he is below you to my knowledge; the devil can’t deceive him; I never could but once.”

  “Let him beware of me,” said Wharton haughtily; “but Mr. Birch, I exonerate you from further responsibility.”

  “Will you give me that in writing?” asked the cautious Birch.

  “Oh! cheerfully,” cried the captain with a laugh; “Caesar! pen, ink, and paper, while I write a discharge for my trusty attendant, Harvey Birch, pedlar, &c. &c.”

  The implements for writing were produced, and the captain with great gaiety, wrote the desired acknowledgment in language of his own; which the pedlar took, and, carefully depositing it by the side of the images of his Catholic majesty, made a sweeping bow to the whole family, and departed as he had approached. He was soon seen at a distance stealing into the door of his own humble dwelling.

  The father and sisters of the captain were too much rejoiced in retaining the young man to express, or even entertain, the apprehensions his situation might reasonably excite; but on retiring to their evening repast, a cooler reflection induced the captain to think of changing his mind—unwilling to trust himself out of the protection of his father’s domains, the young man despatched Caesar to desire another interview with Harvey. The black soon returned with the unwelcome intelligence that it was now too late. Katy had told him that Harvey must be miles on his road to the northward, having left home at early candle light, with his pack. Nothing now remained to the captain but patience, until the morning should afford further opportunity of deciding on the best course for him to pursue.

  “This Harvey Birch, with his knowing looks and portentous warnings, gives me more uneasiness than I am willing to own,” said Captain Wharton, rousing himself from a fit of musing in which the danger of his situation made no small part of his meditations.

  “How is it, that he is able to travel to and fro in these difficult times, without molestation?” inquired Miss Peyton.

  “Why the rebels suffer him to escape so easily, is more than I can answer,” returned the other; “but Sir Henry would not permit a hair of his head to be injured.”

  “Indeed!” cried Frances with interest; “is he then known to Sir Henry Clinton?”

  “At least he ought to be.”

  “Do you think, my son,” asked Mr. Wharton, “there is no danger of his betraying you?”

  “Why—no—I reflected on that before I trusted myself to his power,” said the captain thoughtfully; “he seems to be faithful in matters of business. The danger to himself, should he return to the city, would prevent such an act of villany.”

  “I think,” said Frances, adopting the manner of her brother, “Harvey Birch is not without good feelings; at least, he has the appearance of them at times.”

  “Oh!” cried her sister exultingly, “he has loyalty, and that with me is a cardinal virtue.”

  “I am afraid,” said her brother laughing, “love of money is a stronger passion than love of his king.”

  “Then,” said the father, “you cannot be safe while in his power—for no love will withstan
d the temptation of money when offered to avarice.”

  “Surely, sir,” cried the youth, recovering his gaiety, “there must be one love that can resist any thing—is there not, Fanny?”

  “Here is your candle; you keep your father up beyond his usual hour.”

  * An island more than forty leagues in length lies opposite the coasts of New-York and Connecticut. The arm of the sea which separates it from the main is technically called a Sound, and in that part of the country par excellence, The Sound. This sheet of water varies in its breadth from five to thirty miles.

  Chapter V

  “Through Solway sands, through Taross moss,

  Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross;

  By wily turns, by desperate bounds,

  Had baffled Percy’s best bloodhounds.

  In Eske, or Liddel, fords were none,

  But he would ride them, one by one;

  Alike to him was time, or tide,

  December’s snow, or July’s pride;

  Alike to him was tide, or time,

  Moonless midnight, or matin prime.”

  Walter Scott.

  * * *

  ALL THE MEMBERS of the Wharton family laid their heads on their pillows that night, with a foreboding of some interruption to their ordinary quiet. Uneasiness kept the sisters from enjoying their usual repose, and they rose from their beds on the following morning, unrefreshed, and almost without having closed their eyes.

  On taking an eager and hasty survey of the valley from the windows of their room, nothing, however, but its usual serenity was to be seen. It was glittering with the opening brilliancy of one of those lovely mild days, which occur about the time of the falling of the leaf; and which, by their frequency, class the American autumn with the most delightful seasons of other countries. We have no spring—vegetation seems to leap into existence, instead of creeping, as in the same latitudes of the old world: but how gracefully it retires! September—October—even November and December compose the season for enjoyment in the open air—they have their storms, but they are distinct, and not of long continuance, leaving a clear atmosphere and a cloudless sky.