The Spy by James Fenimore Cooper (english reading book .txt) 📗
- Author: James Fenimore Cooper
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“Come,” he said coolly to the Skinner, who, admiring the preparations, had stood a silent spectator of their progress. He obeyed; and it was not until he found his neckcloth removed, and hat thrown aside, that he took the alarm. But he had so often resorted to a similar expedient to extort information, or plunder, that he by no means felt the terror an unpracticed man would have suffered, at these ominous movements. The rope was adjusted to his neck with the same coolness that formed the characteristic of the whole movement, and a fragment of board being laid upon the barrel, he was ordered to mount.
“But it may fall,” said the Skinner, for the first time beginning to tremble. “I will tell you anything—even how to surprise our party at the Pond, without all this trouble, and it is commanded by my own brother.”
“I want no information,” returned his executioner (for such he now seemed really to be), throwing the rope repeatedly over the beam, first drawing it tight so as to annoy the Skinner a little, and then casting the end from him, beyond the reach of anyone.
“This is joking too far,” cried the Skinner, in a tone of remonstrance, and raising himself on his toes, with the vain hope of releasing himself from the cord, by slipping his head through the noose. But the caution and experience of the refugee officer had guarded against this escape.
“What have you done with the horse you stole from me, rascal?” muttered the officer of the Cowboys, throwing out columns of smoke while he waited for a reply.
“He broke down in the chase,” replied the Skinner quickly; “but I can tell you where one is to be found that is worth him and his sire.”
“Liar! I will help myself when I am in need; you had better call upon God for aid, as your hour is short.” On concluding this consoling advice, he struck the barrel a violent blow with his heavy foot, and the slender staves flew in every direction, leaving the Skinner whirling in the air. As his hands were unconfined, he threw them upwards, and held himself suspended by main strength.
“Come, captain,” he said, coaxingly, a little huskiness creeping into his voice, and his knees beginning to shake with tremor, “end the joke; ’tis enough to make a laugh, and my arms begin to tire—I can’t hold on much longer.”
“Harkee, Mr. Peddler,” said the refugee, in a voice that would not be denied, “I want not your company. Through that door lies your road—march! offer to touch that dog, and you’ll swing in his place, though twenty Sir Henrys wanted your services.” So saying, he retired to the road with the sergeant, as the peddler precipitately retreated down the bank.
Birch went no farther than a bush that opportunely offered itself as a screen to his person, while he yielded to an unconquerable desire to witness the termination of this extraordinary scene.
Left alone, the Skinner began to throw fearful glances around, to espy the hiding places of his tormentors. For the first time the horrid idea seemed to shoot through his brain that something serious was intended by the Cowboy. He called entreatingly to be released, and made rapid and incoherent promises of important information, mingled with affected pleasantry at their conceit, which he would hardly admit to himself could mean anything so dreadful as it seemed. But as he heard the tread of the horses moving on their course, and in vain looked around for human aid, violent trembling seized his limbs, and his eyes began to start from his head with terror. He made a desperate effort to reach the beam; but, too much exhausted with his previous exertions, he caught the rope in his teeth, in a vain effort to sever the cord, and fell to the whole length of his arms. Here his cries were turned into shrieks.
“Help! cut the rope! captain!—Birch! good peddler! Down with the
Congress!—sergeant! for God’s sake, help! Hurrah for the king!—O God!
O God!—mercy, mercy—mercy!”
As his voice became suppressed, one of his hands endeavored to make its way between the rope and his neck, and partially succeeded; but the other fell quivering by his side. A convulsive shuddering passed over his whole frame, and he hung a hideous corpse.
Birch continued gazing on this scene with a kind of infatuation. At its close he placed his hands to his ears, and rushed towards the highway. Still the cries for mercy rang through his brain, and it was many weeks before his memory ceased to dwell on the horrid event. The Cowboys rode steadily on their route, as if nothing had occurred; and the body was left swinging in the wind, until chance directed the wandering footsteps of some lonely straggler to the place.
Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days;
None knew thee but to love thee,
None named thee but to praise.
—HALLECK.
While the scenes and events that we have recorded were occurring, Captain Lawton led his small party, by slow and wary marches, from the Four Corners to the front of a body of the enemy; where he so successfully maneuvered, for a short time, as completely to elude all their efforts to entrap him, and yet so disguised his own force as to excite the constant apprehension of an attack from the Americans. This forbearing policy, on the side of the partisan, was owing to positive orders received from his commander. When Dunwoodie left his detachment, the enemy were known to be slowly advancing, and he directed Lawton to hover around them, until his own return, and the arrival of a body of foot, might enable him to intercept their retreat.
The trooper discharged his duty to the letter but with no little of the impatience that made part of his character when restrained from the attack.
During these movements, Betty Flanagan guided her little cart with indefatigable zeal among the rocks of Westchester, now discussing with the sergeant the nature of evil spirits, and now combating with the surgeon sundry points of practice that were hourly arising between them. But the moment arrived that was to decide the temporary mastery of the field. A detachment of the eastern militia moved out from their fastnesses, and approached the enemy.
The junction between Lawton and his auxiliaries was made at midnight, and an immediate consultation was held between him and the leader of the foot soldiers. After listening to the statements of the partisan, who rather despised the prowess of his enemy, the commandant of the party determined to attack the British, the moment daylight enabled him to reconnoiter their position, without waiting for the aid of Dunwoodie and his horse. So soon as this decision was made, Lawton retired from the building where the consultation was held, and rejoined his own small command.
The few troopers who were with the captain had fastened their horses in a spot adjacent to a haystack, and laid their own frames under its shelter, to catch a few hours’ sleep. But Dr. Sitgreaves, Sergeant Hollister, and Betty Flanagan were congregated at a short distance by themselves, having spread a few blankets upon the dry surface of a rock. Lawton threw his huge frame by the side of the surgeon, and folding his cloak about him, leaned his head upon one hand, and appeared deeply engaged in contemplating the moon as it waded through the heavens. The sergeant was sitting upright, in respectful deference to the surgeon, and the washerwoman was now raising her head, in order to vindicate some of her favorite maxims, and now composing it to sleep.
“So, sergeant,” continued Sitgreaves, following up a previous position, “if you cut upwards, the blow, by losing the additional momentum of your weight, will be less destructive, and at the same time effect the true purpose of war, that of disabling your enemy.”
“Pooh! pooh! sergeant dear,” said the washerwoman, raising her head from the blanket, “where’s the harm of taking a life, jist in the way of battle? Is it the rig’lars who’ll show favor, and they fighting? Ask Captain Jack there, if the country could get free, and the boys no strike their might. I wouldn’t have them disparage the whisky so much.”
“It is not to be expected that an ignorant female like yourself, Mrs. Flanagan,” returned the surgeon, with a calmness that only rendered his contempt more stinging to Betty, “can comprehend the distinctions of surgical science; neither are you accomplished in the sword exercise; so that dissertations upon the judicious use of that weapon could avail you nothing either in theory or in practice.”
“It’s hut little I care, anyway, for such botherment; but fighting is no play, and a body shouldn’t be particular how they strike, or who they hit, so it’s the inimy.”
“Are we likely to have a warm day, Captain Lawton?”
“’Tis more than probable,” replied the trooper; “these militia seldom fail of making a bloody field, either by their cowardice or their ignorance, and the real soldier is made to suffer for their bad conduct.”
“Are you ill, John?” said the surgeon, passing his hand along the arm of the captain, until it instinctively settled on his pulse; but the steady, even beat announced neither bodily nor mental malady.
“Sick at heart, Archibald, at the folly of our rulers, in believing that battles are to be fought and victories won, by fellows who handle a musket as they would a flail; lads who wink when they pull a trigger, and form a line like a hoop pole. The dependence we place on these men spills the best blood of the country.”
The surgeon listened with amazement. It was not the matter, but the manner that surprised him. The trooper had uniformly exhibited, on the eve of battle, an animation, and an eagerness to engage, that was directly at variance with the admirable coolness of his manner at other times. But now there was a despondency in the tones of his voice, and a listlessness in his air, that was entirely different. The operator hesitated a moment, to reflect in what manner he could render this change of service in furthering his favorite system, and then continued,—
“It would be wise, John, to advise the colonel to keep at long shot; a spent ball will disable—”
“No!” exclaimed the trooper, impatiently, “let the rascals singe their whiskers at the muzzles of the British muskets, if they can be driven there. But, enough of them. Archibald, do you deem that moon to be a world like this, containing creatures like ourselves?”
“Nothing more probable, dear John; we know its size and, reasoning from analogy, may easily conjecture its use. Whether or not its inhabitants have attained to that perfection in the sciences which we have acquired, must depend greatly on the state of its society, and in some measure upon its physical influences.”
“I
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