The Spy by James Fenimore Cooper (english reading book .txt) 📗

touched her garments, on entering the room, that she ventured to raise her mild blue eyes to his face. But the glance was unreturned, and Frances unconsciously sighed as she sought the solitude of her own apartment.

Captain Wharton voluntarily gave a pledge to his keepers not to attempt again escaping, and then proceeded to execute those duties on behalf of his father, which were thought necessary in a host. On entering the passage for that purpose, he met the operator who had so dexterously dressed his arm, advancing to the room of the wounded officer.

“Ah!” cried the disciple of Aesculapius, “I see you are doing well; but stop; have you a pin? No! here, I have one; you must keep the cold air from your hurt, or some of the youngsters will be at work at you yet.”

“God forbid,” muttered the captain, in an undertone, attentively adjusting the bandages, when Dunwoodie appeared at the door, impatiently crying aloud,—

“Hasten, Sitgreaves, hasten; or George Singleton will die from loss of blood.”

“What! Singleton! God forbid! Bless me—is it George—poor little George?” exclaimed the surgeon, as he quickened his pace with evident concern, and hastened to the side of the bed. “He is alive, though, and while there is life there is hope. This is the first serious case I have had to-day, where the patient was not already dead. Captain Lawton teaches his men to strike with so little discretion—poor George—bless me, it is a musket bullet.”

The youthful sufferer turned his eyes on the man of science, and with a faint smile endeavored to stretch forth his hand. There was an appeal in the look and action that touched the heart of the operator. The surgeon removed his spectacles to wipe an unusual moisture from his eyes, and proceeded carefully to the discharge of his duty. While the previous arrangements were, however, making, he gave vent in some measure to his feelings, by saying,—

“When it is only a bullet, I have always some hopes; there is a chance that it hits nothing vital. But, bless me, Captain Lawton’s men cut so at random—generally sever the jugular or the carotid artery, or let out the brains, and all are so difficult to remedy—the patient mostly dying before one can get at him. I never had success but once in replacing a man’s brains, although I have tried three this very day. It is easy to tell where Lawton’s troops charge in a battle, they cut so at random.”

The group around the bed of Captain Singleton were too much accustomed to the manner of their surgeon to regard or to reply to his soliloquy; but they quietly awaited the moment when he was to commence his examination. This now took place, and Dunwoodie stood looking the operator in the face, with an expression that seemed to read his soul. The patient shrank from the application of the probe, and a smile stole over the features of the surgeon, as he muttered,—

“There has been nothing before it in that quarter.” He now applied himself in earnest to his work, took off his spectacles, and threw aside his wig. All this time Dunwoodie stood in feverish silence, holding one of the hands of the sufferer in both his own, watching the countenance of Doctor Sitgreaves. At length Singleton gave a slight groan, and the surgeon rose with alacrity, and said aloud,—

“Ah! there is some pleasure in following a bullet; it may be said to meander through the human body, injuring nothing vital; but as for Captain Lawton’s men—”

“Speak,” interrupted Dunwoodie; “is there hope?—can you find the ball?”

“It’s no difficult matter to find that which one has in his hand, Major Dunwoodie,” replied the surgeon, coolly, preparing his dressings. “It took what that literal fellow, Captain Lawton, calls a circumbendibus, a route never taken by the swords of his men, notwithstanding the multiplied pains I have been at to teach him how to cut scientifically. Now, I saw a horse this day with his head half severed from his body.”

“That,” said Dunwoodie, as the blood rushed to his cheeks again, and his dark eyes sparkled with the rays of hope, “was some of my handiwork; I killed that horse myself.”

“You!” exclaimed the surgeon, dropping his dressings in surprise, “you!
But you knew it was a horse!”

“I had such suspicions, I own,” said the major, smiling, and holding a beverage to the lips of his friend.

“Such blows alighting on the human frame are fatal,” continued the doctor, pursuing his business. “They set at naught the benefits which flow from the lights of science; they are useless in a battle, for disabling your foe is all that is required. I have sat, Major Dunwoodie, many a cold hour, while Captain Lawton has been engaged, and after all my expectation, not a single case worth recording has occurred—all scratches or death wounds. Ah! the saber is a sad weapon in unskillful hands! Yes, Major Dunwoodie, many are the hours I have thrown away in endeavoring to impress this truth on Captain John Lawton.”

The impatient major pointed silently to his friend, and the surgeon quickened his movements.

“Ah! poor George, it is a narrow chance; but”—he was interrupted by a messenger requiring the presence of the commanding officer in the field. Dunwoodie pressed the hand of his friend, and beckoned the doctor to follow him, as he withdrew.

“What think you?” he whispered, on reaching the passage. “Will he live?”

“He will.”

“Thank God!” cried the youth, hastening below.

Dunwoodie for a moment joined the family, who were now collecting in the ordinary parlor. His face was no longer wanting in smiles, and his salutations, though hasty, were cordial. He took no notice of the escape and capture of Henry Wharton, but seemed to think the young man had continued where he had left him before the encounter. On the ground they had not met. The English officer withdrew in haughty silence to a window, leaving the major uninterrupted to make his communications.

The excitement produced by the events of the day in the youthful feelings of the sisters, had been succeeded by a languor that kept them both silent, and Dunwoodie held his discourse with Miss Peyton.

“Is there any hope, my cousin, that your friend can survive his wound?” said the lady, advancing towards her kinsman, with a smile of benevolent regard.

“Everything, my dear madam, everything,” answered the soldier cheerfully. “Sitgreaves says he will live, and he has never deceived me.”

“Your pleasure is not much greater than my own at this intelligence. One so dear to Major Dunwoodie cannot fail to excite an interest in the bosom of his friends.”

“Say one so deservedly dear, madam,” returned the major, with warmth. “He is the beneficent spirit of the corps, equally beloved by us all; so mild, so equal, so just, so generous, with the meekness of a lamb and the fondness of a dove—it is only in the hour of battle that Singleton is a lion.”

“You speak of him as if he were your mistress, Major Dunwoodie,” observed the smiling spinster, glancing her eye at her niece, who sat pale and listening, in a corner of the room.

“I love him as one,” cried the excited youth. “But he requires care and nursing; all now depends on the attention he receives.”

“Trust me, sir, he will want for nothing under this roof.”

“Pardon me, dear madam; you are all that is benevolent, but Singleton requires a care which many men would feel to be irksome. It is at moments like these, and in sufferings like this, that the soldier most finds the want of female tenderness.” As he spoke, he turned his eyes on Frances with an expression that again thrilled to the heart of his mistress; she rose from her seat with burning cheeks, and said,—

“All the attention that can with propriety be given to a stranger, will be cheerfully bestowed on your friend.”

“Ah!” cried the major, shaking his head, “that cold word propriety will kill him; he must be fostered, cherished, soothed.”

“These are offices for a sister or a wife.”

“A sister!” repeated the soldier, the blood rushing to his own face tumultuously; “a sister! He has a sister; and one that might be here with to-morrow’s sun.” He paused, mused in silence, glanced his eyes uneasily at Frances, and muttered in an undertone, “Singleton requires it, and it must be done.”

The ladies had watched his varying countenance in some surprise, and
Miss Peyton now observed that,—

“If there were a sister of Captain Singleton near them, her presence would be gladly requested both by herself and nieces.”

“It must be, madam; it cannot well be otherwise,” replied Dunwoodie, with a hesitation that but ill agreed with his former declarations. “She shall be sent for express this very night.” And then, as if willing to change the subject, he approached Captain Wharton, and continued, mildly,—

“Henry Wharton, to me honor is dearer than life; but in your hands I know it can safely be confided. Remain here unwatched until we leave the county, which will not be for some days.”

The distance in the manner of the English officer vanished, and taking the offered hand of the other, he replied with warmth, “Your generous confidence, Peyton, will not be abused, even though the gibbet on which your Washington hung André be ready for my own execution.”

“Henry, Henry Wharton,” said Dunwoodie reproachfully, “you little know the man who leads our armies, or you would have spared him that reproach; but duty calls me without. I leave you where I could wish to stay myself, and where you cannot be wholly unhappy.”

In passing Frances, she received another of those smiling looks of affection she so much prized, and for a season the impression made by his appearance after the battle was forgotten.

Among the veterans that had been impelled by the times to abandon the quiet of age for the service of their country, was Colonel Singleton. He was a native of Georgia, and had been for the earlier years of his life a soldier by profession. When the struggle for liberty commenced, he offered his services to his country, and from respect to his character they had been accepted. His years and health had, however, prevented his discharging the active duties of the field, and he had been kept in command of different posts of trust, where his country might receive the benefits of his vigilance and fidelity without inconvenience to himself. For the last year he had been intrusted with the passes into the Highlands, and was now quartered, with his daughter, but a short day’s march above the valley where Dunwoodie had met the enemy. His only other child was the wounded officer we have mentioned. Thither, then, the major prepared to dispatch a messenger with the unhappy news of the captain’s situation, and charged with such an invitation from the ladies as he did not doubt would speedily bring the sister to the couch of her brother.

This duty performed, though with an unwillingness that only could make his former anxiety more perplexing, Dunwoodie proceeded to the field where his troops had halted. The remnant of the English were already to be seen, over the tops of the trees, marching along the heights towards their boats, in compact order and with great watchfulness. The detachment of the dragoons under Lawton were a short distance on their flank, eagerly awaiting a favorable moment to strike a blow. In this manner both parties were soon lost to view.

A short distance above the Locusts was a small hamlet where several roads intersected each other, and from which, consequently, access to the surrounding country was easy. It was a favorite halting place of the horse, and frequently held by the light parties of the American army during their excursions below. Dunwoodie had been the first to discover its advantages, and as it was necessary for him to remain in the county until further orders from above, it cannot be supposed he overlooked them now. To this place the troops were directed to retire, carrying with them their wounded; parties were already employed in the sad duty of interring the dead. In making these arrangements, a new object of embarrassment presented itself to our young soldier. In moving through the field, he was struck with the appearance of Colonel Wellmere, seated by himself, brooding over his misfortunes, uninterrupted by anything but the passing civilities of the American officers. His anxiety on behalf of Singleton had hitherto banished the recollection of his captive from the mind of Dunwoodie, and he now approached him with apologies for his neglect. The Englishman received his courtesies with coolness, and complained of being injured by what he affected to think was the accidental stumbling of his horse. Dunwoodie, who had seen one of his own men ride him down, and that with very little ceremony, slightly smiled, as he offered him surgical assistance. This could only be procured at the