Wyandotte - James Fenimore Cooper
Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37
The events that led to, and the hot skirmish which it is the practice
of the country to call the Battle of Lexington, and the incidents of
the day itself, are too familiar to the ordinary reader, to require
repetition here. The major explained all the military points very
clearly, did full justice to the perseverance and daring of the
provincials, as he called his enemies--for, an American himself, he
would not term them Americans--and threw in as many explanatory remarks
as he could think of, by way of vindicating the "march _in_,
again." This he did, too, quite as much out of filial piety, as out of
self-love; for, to own the truth, the captain's mortification, as a
soldier, was so very evident as to give his son sensible pain.
"The effect of all this," continued the major, when his narrative of
the military movements was ended, "has been to raise a tremendous
feeling, throughout the country, and God knows what is to follow."
"And this you have come hither to tell me, Robert," said the father,
kindly. "It is well done, and as I would have expected from you. We
might have passed the summer, here, and not have heard a whisper of so
important an event."
"Soon after the affair--or, as soon as we got some notion of its effect
on the provinces, general Gage sent me, privately, with despatches to
governor Tryon. _He_, governor Tryon, was aware of your position;
and, as I had also to communicate the death of Sir Harry Willoughby, he
directed me to come up the river, privately, have an interview with Sir
John, if possible, and then push on, under a feigned name, and
communicate with you. He thinks, now Sir William is dead, that with
your estate, and new rank, and local influence, you might be very
serviceable in sustaining the royal cause; for, it is not to be
concealed that this affair is likely to take the character of an open
and wide-spread revolt against the authority of the crown."
"General Tryon does me too much honour," answered the captain, coldly.
"My estate is a small body of wild land; my influence extends little
beyond this beaver meadow, and is confined to my own household, and
some fifteen or twenty labourers; and as for the _new rank_ of
which you speak, it is not likely the colonists will care much for
_that,_ if they disregard the rights of the king. Still, you have
acted like a son in running the risk you do, Bob; and I pray God you
may get back to your regiment, in safety."
"This is a cordial to my hopes, sir; for nothing would pain me more
than to believe you think it my duty, because I was born in the
colonies, to throw up my commission, and take side with the rebels."
"I do not conceive that to be your duty, any more than I conceive it to
be mine to take sides against them, because I happened to be born in
England. It is a weak view of moral obligations, that confines them
merely to the accidents of birth, and birth-place. Such a subsequent
state of things may have grown up, as to change all our duties, and it
is necessary that we discharge them as they _are_; not as they may
have been, hitherto, or may be, hereafter. Those who clamour so much
about mere birth-place, usually have no very clear sense of their
higher obligations. Over our birth we can have no control; while we are
rigidly responsible for the fulfilment of obligations voluntarily
contracted."
"Do you reason thus, captain?" asked the chaplain, with strong
interest--"Now, I confess, I _feel_, in this matter, not only very
much like a native American, but very much like a native Yankee, in the
bargain. You know I was born in the Bay, and--the major must excuse
me--but, it ill-becomes my cloth to deceive--I hope the major will
pardon me--I--I do hope--"
"Speak out, Mr. Woods," said Robert Willoughby, smiling--"_You_
have nothing to fear from your old friend the major."
"So I thought--so I thought--well, then, I was glad--yes, really
rejoiced at heart, to hear that my countrymen, down-east, there, had
made the king's troops scamper,"
"I am not aware that I used any such terms, sir, in connection with the
manner in which we marched in, after the duty we went out on was
performed," returned the young soldier, a little stiffly. "I suppose it
is natural for one Yankee to sympathize with another; but, my father,
Mr. Woods, is an _Old_ England, and not a _New_-England-man;
and he may be excused if he feel more for the servants of the crown."
"Certainly, my dear major--certainly, my dear Mr. Robert--my old pupil,
and, I hope, my friend--all this is true enough, and very natural. I
allow captain Willoughby to wish the best for the king's troops, while
I wish the best for my own countrymen."
"This is natural, on both sides, out of all question, though it by no
means follows that it is right. 'Our country, right or wrong,' is a
high-sounding maxim, but it is scarcely the honest man's maxim. Our
country, after all, cannot have nearer claims upon us, than our parents
for instance; and who can claim a moral right to sustain even his own
father, in error, injustice, or crime? No, no--I hate your pithy
sayings; they commonly mean nothing that is substantially good, at
bottom."
"But one's country, in a time of actual war, sir!" said the major, in a
tone of as much remonstrance as habit would allow him to use to his own
father.
"Quite true, Bob; but the difficulty here, is to know which _is_
one's country. It is a family quarrel, at the best, and it will hardly
do to talk about foreigners, at all. It is the same as if I should
treat Maud unkindly, or harshly, because she is the child of only a
friend, and not my own natural daughter. As God is my judge, Woods, I
am unconscious of not loving Maud Meredith, at this moment, as tenderly
as I love Beulah Willoughby. There was a period, in her childhood, when
the playful little witch had most of my heart, I am afraid, if the
truth were known. It is use, and duty, then, and not mere birth, that
ought to tie our hearts."
The major thought it might very well be that one child should be loved
more than another, though he did not understand how there could be a
divided allegiance. The chaplain looked at the subject with views still
more narrowed, and he took up the cudgels of argument in sober earnest,
conceiving this to be as good an opportunity as another, for disposing
of the matter.
"I am all for birth, and blood, and natural ties," he said, "always
excepting the peculiar claims of Miss Maud, whose case is _sui
generis_, and not to be confounded with any other case. A man can
have but one country, any more than he can have but one nature; and, as
he is forced to be true to that nature, so ought he morally to be true
to that country. The captain says, that it is difficult to determine
which is one's country, in a civil war; but I cannot admit the
argument. If Massachusetts and England get to blows, Massachusetts is
my country; if Suffolk and Worcester counties get into a quarrel, my
duty calls me to Worcester, where I was born; and so I should carry out
the principle from country to country, county to county, town to town,
parish to parish; or, even household to household."
"This is an extraordinary view of one's duty, indeed, my dear Mr.
Woods," cried the major, with a good deal of animation; "and if one-
half the household quarrelled with the other, you would take sides with
that in which you happened to find yourself, at the moment."
"It is an extraordinary view of one's duty, for a _parson_;"
observed the captain. "Let us reason backward a little, and ascertain
where we shall come out. You put the head of the household out of the
question. Has he no claims? Is a father to be altogether overlooked in
the struggle between the children? Are his laws to be broken--his
rights invaded--or his person to be maltreated, perhaps, and his curse
disregarded, because a set of unruly children get by the ears, on
points connected with their own selfishness?"
"I give up the household," cried the chaplain, "for the bible settles
that; and what the bible disposes of, is beyond dispute--'Honour thy
father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the
Lord thy God giveth thee'--are terrible words, and must not be
disobeyed. But the decalogue has not another syllable which touches the
question. 'Thou shalt not kill,' means murder only; common, vulgar
murder--and 'thou shalt not steal,' 'thou shalt not commit adultery,'
&c., don't bear on civil war, as I see. 'Remember the Sabbath to keep
it holy'--'Thou shalt not covet the ox nor the ass'--'Thou shalt not
take the name of the Lord thy God in vain'--none of these, not one of
them, bears, at all, on this question."
"What do you think of the words of the Saviour, where he tells us to
'render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's? Has Caesar no rights
here? Can Massachusetts and my Lord North settle their quarrels in such
a manner as to put Caesar altogether out of view?"
The chaplain looked down a moment, pondered a little, and then he came
up to the attack, again, with renewed ardour.
"Caesar is out of the question here. If His Majesty will come and take
sides with us, we shall be ready to honour and obey him; but if he
choose to remain alienated from us, it is his act, not ours."
"This is a new mode of settling allegiance! If Caesar will do as we
wish, he shall still be Caesar; but, if he refuse to do as we wish, then
down with Caesar. I am an old soldier, Woods, and while I feel that this
question has two sides to it, my disposition to reverence and honour
the king is still strong."
The major appeared delighted, and, finding matters going on so
favourably, he pleaded fatigue and withdrew, feeling satisfied that, if
his father fairly got into a warm discussion, taking the loyal side of
the question, he would do more to confirm himself in the desired views,
than could be effected by any other means. By this time, the disputants
were so warm as scarcely to notice the disappearance of the young man,
the argument proceeding.
The subject is too hackneyed, and, indeed, possesses too little
interest, to induce us to give more than an outline of what passed. The
captain and the chaplain belonged to that class of friends, which may
be termed argumentative. Their constant discussions were a strong link
in the chain of esteem; for they had a tendency to enliven their
solitude, and to give a zest to lives that, without them, would have
been exceedingly monotonous. Their ordinary subjects were theology and
war; the chaplain having some practical knowledge of the last, and the
captain a lively disposition to the first. In these discussions, the
clergyman was good-natured and the soldier polite; circumstances that
tended to render them far more agreeable to the listeners than they
might otherwise have proved.
On the present occasion, the chaplain rang the changes diligently, on
the natural feelings, while his friend spoke most of the higher duties.
The _ad captandum_ part of the argument, oddly enough, fell to the
share of the minister of the church; while the intellectual,
discriminating, and really logical portion of the subject, was handled
by one trained in garrisons and camps, with a truth, both of ethics and
reason, that would have done credit to a drilled casuist. The war of
words continued till past midnight, both disputants soon getting back
to their pipes, carrying on the conflict amid a smoke that did no
dishonour to such a well-contested field. Leaving the captain and his
friend thus intently engaged, we will take one or two glimpses into
different parts of the house, before we cause all our characters to
retire for the night.
About the time the battle in the library was at its height, Mrs.
Willoughby was alone in her room, having disposed of all the cares, and
most of the duties of the day. The mother's heart was filled with a
calm delight that it would have been difficult for herself to describe.
All she held most dear on earth, her husband, her kind-hearted,
faithful, long-loved husband; her noble son, the pride and joy of her
heart; Beulah, her own natural-born daughter, the mild, tractable,
sincere, true-hearted child that so much resembled herself; and Maud,
the adopted, one rendered dear by solicitude and tenderness, and now so
fondly beloved on her own account, were all with her, beneath her own
roof, almost within the circle of her arms. The Hutted Knoll was no
longer a solitude; the manor was not a wilderness to _her_; for
where her heart was, there truly was her treasure, also. After passing
a few minutes in silent, but delightful thought, this excellent,
guileless woman knelt and poured out her soul in thanksgivings to the
Being, who had surrounded her lot with so many blessings. Alas! little
did she suspect the extent, duration, and direful nature of the evils
which, at that very moment, were pending over her native country, or
the pains that her own affectionate hear? was to endure! The major had
not suffered a whisper of the real nature of his errand to escape him,
except to his father and the chaplain; and we will now follow him to
his apartment, and pass a minute, _tete-a-tete,_ with the young
soldier, ere he too lays his head on his pillow.
A couple of neat rooms were prepared and furnished, that were held
sacred to the uses of the heir. They were known to the whole household,
black and white, as the "young captain's quarters;" and even Maud
called them, in her laughing off-handedness, "Bob's Sanctum." Here,
then, the major found everything as he left it on his last visit, a
twelvemonth before; and some few things that were strangers to him, in
the bargain. In that day, toilets covered with muslin, more or less
worked and ornamented, were a regular appliance of every bed-room, of a
better-class house, throughout America. The more modern "Duchesses,"
"Psyches," "dressing-tables," &c. &c., of our own extravagant and
benefit-of-the-act-taking generation, were then unknown; a moderately-
sized glass, surrounded by curved, gilded ornaments, hanging against
the wall, above the said muslin-covered table, quite as a matter of
law, if not of domestic faith.
As soon as the major had set down his candle, he looked about him, as
one recognises old friends, pleased at renewing his acquaintance with
so many dear and cherished objects. The very playthings of his
childhood were there; and, even a beautiful and long-used hoop, was
embellished with ribbons, by some hand unknown to himself. "Can this be
my mother?" thought the young man, approaching to examine the well-
remembered hoop, which he had never found so honoured before; "can my
kind, tender-hearted mother, who never will forget that I am no longer
a child, can she have really done this? I must laugh at her, to-morrow,
about it, even while I kiss and bless her." Then he turned to the
toilet, where stood a basket, filled with different articles, which, at
once, he understood were offerings to himself. Never had he visited the
Hut without finding such a basket in his room at night. It was a tender
proof how truly and well he was remembered, in his absence.
"Ah!" thought the major, as he opened a bundle of knit lamb's-wool
stockings, "here is my dear mother again, with her thoughts about damp
feet, and the exposure of service. And a dozen shirts, too, with
'Beulah' pinned on one of them--how the deuce does the dear girl
suppose I am to carry away such a stock of linen, without even a horse
to ease me of a bundle? My kit would be like that of the commander-in-
chief, were I to take away all that these dear relatives design for me.
What's this?--a purse! a handsome silken purse, too, with Beulah's name
on it. Has Maud nothing, here? Why has Maud forgotten me! Ruffles,
handkerchiefs, garters--yes, here is a pair of my good mother's own
knitting, but nothing of Maud's--Ha! what have we here? As I live, a
beautiful silken scarf--netted in a way to make a whole regiment
envious. Can this have been bought, or has it been the work of a
twelvemonth? No name on it, either. Would my father have done this?
Perhaps it is one of his old scarfs--if so, it is an old _new_
one, for I do not think it has ever been worn. I must inquire into
this, in the morning--I wonder there is nothing of Maud's!"
As the major laid aside his presents, he kissed the scarf, and then--I
regret to say without saying _his_ prayers--the young man went to
bed.
The scene must now be transferred to the room where the sisters--in
affection, if not in blood--were about to seek their pillows also.
Maud, ever the quickest and most prompt in her movements, was already
in her night-clothes; and, wrapping a shawl about herself, was seated
waiting for Beulah to finish her nightly orisons. It was not long
before the latter rose from her knees, and then our heroine spoke.
"The major must have examined the basket by this time," she cried, her
cheek rivalling the tint of a riband it leaned against, on the back of
the chair. "I heard his heavy tramp--tramp--tramp--as he went to his
room--how differently these men walk from us girls, Beulah!"
"They do, indeed; and Bob has got to be so large and heavy, now, that
he quite frightens me, sometimes. Do you not think he grows wonderfully
like papa?"
"I do not see it. He wears his own hair, and it's a pity he should ever
cut it off, it's so handsome and curling. Then he is taller, but
lighter--has more colour--is so much younger--and everyway so
different, I wonder you think so. I do not think him in the least like
father."
"Well, that is odd, Maud. Both mother and myself were struck with the
resemblance, this evening, and we were both delighted to see it. Papa
is quite handsome, and so I think is Bob. Mother says he is not
_quite_ as handsome as father was, at his age, but _so_ like
him, it is surprising!"
"Men may be handsome and not alike. Father is certainly one of the
handsomest elderly men of my acquaintance--and the major is so-so-ish--
but, I wonder you can think a man of seven-and-twenty so _very_
like one of sixty odd. Bob tells me he can play the flute quite readily
now, Beulah."
"I dare say; he does everything he undertakes uncommonly well. Mr.
Woods said, a few days since, he had never met with a boy who was
quicker at his mathematics."
"Oh! All Mr. Wood's geese are swans. I dare say there have been other
boys who were quite as clever. I do not believe in _non-pareils,_
Beulah."
"You surprise me, Maud--you, whom I always supposed such a friend of
Bob's! He thinks everything _you_ do, too, so perfect! Now, this
very evening, he was looking at the sketch you have made of the Knoll,
and he protested he did not know a regular artist in England, even,
that would have done it better."
Maud stole a glance at her sister, while the latter was speaking, from
under her cap, and her cheeks now fairly put the riband to shame; but
her smile was still saucy and wilful.
"Oh nonsense," she said--"Bob's no judge of drawings--_He_ scarce
knows a tree from a horse!"
"I'm surprised to hear you say so, Maud," said the generous-minded and
affectionate Beulah, who could see no imperfection in Bob; "and that of
your brother. When he taught _you_ to draw, you thought him well
skilled as an artist."
"Did I?--I dare say I'm a capricious creature--but, somehow, I don't
regard Bob, just as I used to. He has been away from us so much, of
late, you know--and the army makes men so formidable--and, they are not
like us, you know--and, altogether, I think Bob excessively changed."
"Well, I'm glad mamma don't hear this, Maud. She looks upon her son,
now he is a major, and twenty-seven, just as she used to look upon him,
when he was in petticoats--nay, I think she considers us all exactly as
so many little children."
"She is a dear, good mother, I know," said Maud, with emphasis, tears
starting to her eyes, involuntarily, almost _impetuously_--
"whatever she says, does, wishes, hopes, or thinks, is right."
"Oh! I knew you would come to, as soon as there was a question about
mother! Well, for my part, I have no such horror of men, as not to feel
just as much tenderness for father or brother, as I feel for mamma,
herself."
"Not for Bob, Beulah. Tenderness for Bob! Why, my dear sister, that is
feeling tenderness for a _Major of Foot_, a very different thing
from feeling it for one's mother. As for papa--dear me, he is glorious,
and I do so love him!"
"You ought to, Maud; for you were, and I am not certain that you are
not, at this moment, _his_ darling."
It was odd that this was said without the least thought, on the part of
the speaker, that Maud was not her natural sister--that, in fact, she
was not in the least degree related to her by blood. But so closely and
judiciously had captain and Mrs. Willoughby managed the affair of their
adopted child, that neither they themselves, Beulah, nor the inmates of
the family or household, ever thought of her, but as of a real daughter
of her nominal parents. As for Beulah, her feelings were so simple and
sincere, that they were even beyond the ordinary considerations of
delicacy, and she took precisely the same liberties with her titular,
as she would have done with a natural sister. Maud alone, of all in the
Hut, remembered her birth, and submitted to some of its most obvious
consequences. As respects the captain, the idea never crossed her mind,
that she was adopted by him; as respects her mother, she filled to her,
in every sense, that sacred character; Beulah, too, was a sister, in
thought and deed; but, Bob, he had so changed, had been so many years
separated from her; had once actually called her Miss Meredith--
somehow, she knew not how herself--it was fully six years since she had
begun to remember that _he_ was not her brother.
"As for my father," said Maud, rising with emotion, and speaking with
startling emphasis--"I will not say I _love_ him--I _worship_
him!"
"Ah! I know that well enough, Maud; and to say the truth, you are a
couple of idolaters, between you. Mamma says this, sometimes; though
she owns she is not jealous. But it would pain her excessively to hear
that you do not feel towards Bob, just as we all feel."
"But, ought I?--Beulah, I cannot!"
"Ought you!--Why not, Maud? Are you in your senses, child?"
"But--you know--I'm sure--you ought to remember--"
"_What_?" demanded Beulah, really frightened at the other's
excessive agitation.
"That I am _not_ his real--true--_born_ sister!"
This was the first time in their lives, either had ever alluded to the
fact, in the other's presence. Beulah turned pale; she trembled all
over, as if in an ague; then she luckily burst into tears, else she
might have fainted.
"Beulah--my sister--my _own_ sister!" cried Maud, throwing herself
into the arms of the distressed girl.
"Ah! Maud, you _are_, you _shall_ for ever be, my only, only
sister."
Chapter VI.
O! It is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending;
Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye--
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending--
Glory, that never shall fade, never, O! never away.
Percival.
Notwithstanding the startling intelligence that had so unexpectedly
reached it, and the warm polemical conflict that had been carried on
within its walls, the night passed peacefully over the roof of the
Hutted Knoll. At the return of dawn, the two Plinys, both the Smashes,
and all the menials were again afoot; and, ere long, Mike, Saucy Nick
Joel, and the rest were seen astir, in the open fields, or in the
margin of the woods. Cattle were fed, cows milked fires lighted, and
everything pursued its course, in the order of May. The three wenches,
as female negroes were then termed, _ex officio_, in America,
opened their throats, as was usual at that hour, and were heard singing
at their labours, in a way nearly to deaden the morning carols of the
tenants of the forest. _Mari'_ in particular, would have drowned
the roar of Niagara. The captain used to call her his clarion.
In due time, the superiors of the household made their appearance. Mrs.
Willoughby was the first out of her room, as was ever the case when
there was anything to be done. On the present occasion, the "fatted
calf" was to be killed, not in honour of the return of a prodigal son,
however, but in behalf of one who was the pride of her eyes, and the
joy of her heart. The breakfast that she ordered was just the sort of
breakfast, that one must visit America to witness. France can set forth
a very scientific _dejeuner a la fourchette,_ and England has
laboured-and ponderous imitations; but, for the spontaneous,
superabundant, unsophisticated, natural, all-sufficing and all-subduing
morning's meal, take America, in a better-class house, in the country,
and you reach the _ne plus ultra_, in that sort of thing. Tea,
coffee, and chocolate, of which the first and last were excellent, and
the second respectable; ham, fish, eggs, toast, cakes, rolls,
marmalades, &c. &c. &c., were thrown together in noble confusion;
frequently occasioning the guest, as Mr. Woods naively confessed, an
utter confusion of mind, as to which he was to attack, when all were
inviting and each would be welcome.