The Spy, James Fenimore Cooper [uplifting book club books TXT] 📗
- Author: James Fenimore Cooper
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“There is no term more doubtful than that word misfortune,” said the surgeon, regardless of the nice maneuvers of the host. “Some deem one thing a misfortune, others its opposite; misfortune begets misfortune. Life is a misfortune, for it may be the means of enduring misfortune; and death is a misfortune, as it abridges the enjoyments of life.”
“It is a misfortune that our mess has no such wine as this,” interrupted the trooper.
“We will pledge you a sentiment in it, sir, as it seems to suit your taste,” said Mr. Wharton.
Lawton filled to the brim, and drank, “A speedy peace, or a stirring war.”
“I drink your toast, Captain Lawton, though I greatly distrust your construction of activity,” said the surgeon. “In my poor judgment, cavalry should be kept in the rear to improve a victory, and not sent in front to gain it. Such may be said to be their natural occupation, if the term can be used in reference to so artificial a body; for all history shows that the horse have done most when held in reserve.”
This dissertation, uttered in a sufficiently didactic manner, was a hint that Miss Peyton did not neglect. She arose and retired, followed by her juniors.
Nearly at the same moment, Mr. Wharton and his son made an apology for their absence, which was required on account of the death of a near neighbor, and withdrew.
The retreat of the ladies was the signal for the appearance of the surgeon’s cigar, which, being established in a corner of his mouth, in a certain knowing way, caused not the slightest interruption to his discourse.
“If anything can sweeten captivity and wounds, it must be the happiness of suffering in the society of the ladies who have left us,” gallantly observed the colonel, as he resumed his seat after closing the door.
“Sympathy and kindness have their influence on the human system,” returned the surgeon, knocking the ashes from his cigar, with the tip of a little finger, in the manner of an adept. “The connection is intimate between the moral and physical feelings; but still, to accomplish a cure, and restore nature to the healthy tone it has lost from disease or accident, requires more than can flow from unguided sympathies. In such cases, the lights—” the surgeon accidentally caught the eye of the trooper and he paused. Taking two or three hasty puffs, he essayed to finish the sentence, “In such cases, the knowledge that flows from the lights—”
“You were saying, sir,” said Colonel Wellmere, sipping his wine,—
“The purport of my remark went to say,” continued Sitgreaves, turning his back on Lawton, “that a bread poultice would not set a broken arm.”
“More is the pity,” cried the trooper, “for next to eating, the nourishment could not be more innocently applied.”
“To you, Colonel Wellmere,” said the surgeon, “as a man of education, I can with safety appeal.” The colonel bowed. “You must have observed the dreadful havoc made in your ranks by the men who were led by this gentleman”; the colonel looked grave, again; “how, when blows lighted on their frames, life was invariably extinguished, beyond all hope of scientific reparation; how certain yawning wounds were inflicted, that must set at defiance the art of the most experienced practitioner; now, sir, to you I triumphantly appeal, therefore, to know whether your detachment would not have been as effectually defeated, if the men had all lost a right arm, for instance, as if they had all lost their heads.”
“The triumph of your appeal is somewhat hasty, sir,” said Wellmere.
“Is the cause of liberty advanced a step by such injudicious harshness in the field?” continued the surgeon, bent on the favorite principle of his life.
“I am yet to learn that the cause of liberty is in any manner advanced by the services of any gentleman in the rebel army,” rejoined the colonel.
“Not liberty! Good God, for what then are we contending?”
“Slavery, sir; yes, even slavery; you are putting the tyranny of a mob on the throne of a kind and lenient prince. Where is the consistency of your boasted liberty?”
“Consistency!” repeated the surgeon, looking about him a little wildly, at hearing such sweeping charges against a cause he had so long thought holy.
“Aye, sir, your consistency. Your congress of sages have published a manifesto, wherein they set forth the equality of political rights.”
“’Tis true, and it is done most ably.”
“I say nothing of its ability; but if true, why not set your slaves at liberty?” This argument, which is thought by most of the colonel’s countrymen a triumphant answer to a thousand eloquent facts, lost none of its weight by the manner in which it was uttered.
Every American feels humbled at the necessity of vindicating his country from the apparent inconsistency and injustice of the laws alluded to. His feelings are much like those of an honorable man who is compelled to exonerate himself from a disgraceful charge, although he may know the accusation to be false. At the bottom, Sitgreaves had much good sense, and thus called on, he took up the cudgels of argument in downright earnest.
“We deem it a liberty to have the deciding voice in the councils by which we are governed. We think it a hardship to be ruled by the king of a people who live at a distance of three thousand miles, and who cannot, and who do not, feel a single political interest in common with ourselves. I say nothing of oppression; the child was of age, and was entitled to the privileges of majority. In such cases, there is but one tribunal to which to appeal for a nation’s rights—it is power, and we now make the appeal.”
“Such doctrines may suit your present purposes,” said Wellmere, with a sneer; “but I apprehend it is opposed to all the opinions and practices of civilized nations.”
“It is in conformity with the practices of all nations,” said the surgeon, returning the nod and smile of Lawton, who enjoyed the good sense of his comrade as much as he disliked what he called “his medical talk.” “Who would be ruled when he can rule? The only rational ground to take is, that every community has a right to govern itself, so that in no manner it violates the laws of God.”
“And is holding your fellow creatures in bondage in conformity to those laws?” asked the colonel, impressively.
The surgeon took another glass, and hemming once, returned to the combat.
“Sir,” said he, “slavery is of very ancient origin, and it seems to have been confined to no particular religion or form of government; every nation of civilized Europe does, or has held their fellow creatures in this kind of duresse.”
“You will except Great Britain,” cried the colonel, proudly.
“No, sir,” continued the surgeon, confidently, feeling that he was now carrying the war out of his own country, “I cannot except Great Britain. It was her children, her ships, and her laws, that first introduced the practice into these states; and on her institutions the judgment must fall. There is not a foot of ground belonging to England, in which a negro would be useful, that has not its slave. England herself has none, but England is overflowing with physical force, a part of which she is obliged to maintain in the shape of paupers. The same is true of France, and most other European countries. So long as we were content to remain colonies, nothing was said of our system of domestic slavery; but now, when we are resolute to obtain as much freedom as the vicious system of metropolitan rule has left us, that which is England’s gift has become our reproach. Will your master liberate the slaves of his subjects should he succeed in subduing the new states, or will he condemn the whites to the same servitude as that in which he has been so long content to see the blacks? It is true, we continue the practice; but we must come gradually to the remedy, or create an evil greater than that which we endure at present. Doubtless, as we advance, the manumission of our slaves will accompany us, until happily these fair regions shall exist, without a single image of the Creator that is held in a state which disqualifies him to judge of that Creator’s goodness.”
It will be remembered that Doctor Sitgreaves spoke forty years ago, and
Wellmere was unable to contradict his prophetic assertion.
Finding the subject getting to be knotty, the Englishman retired to the apartment in which the ladies had assembled; and, seated by the side of Sarah, he found a more pleasing employment in relating the events of fashionable life in the metropolis, and in recalling the thousand little anecdotes of their former associates. Miss Peyton was a pleased listener, as she dispensed the bounties of the tea table, and Sarah frequently bowed her blushing countenance to her needlework, as her face glowed at the flattering remarks of her companion.
The dialogue we have related established a perfect truce between the surgeon and his comrade; and the former having paid a visit to Singleton, they took their leave of the ladies, and mounted; the former to visit the wounded at the encampment, and the latter to rejoin his troop. But their movements were arrested at the gate by an occurrence that we shall relate in the next chapter.
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honored head:
No more that meek, that suppliant look in prayer,
Nor that pure faith that gave it force, are there:
But he is blest, and I lament no more,
A wise good man, contented to be poor.
—CRABBE.
We have already said that the customs of America leave the dead but a short time in sight of the mourners; and the necessity of providing for his own safety had compelled the peddler to abridge even this brief space. In the confusion and agitation produced by the events we have recorded, the death of the elder Birch had occurred unnoticed; but a sufficient number of the immediate neighbors were hastily collected, and the ordinary rites of sepulture were now about to be paid to the deceased. It was the approach of this humble procession that arrested the movements of the trooper and his comrade. Four men supported the body on a rude bier; and four others walked in advance, ready to relieve their friends from their burden. The peddler walked next the coffin, and by his side moved Katy Haynes, with a most determined aspect of woe, and next to the mourners came Mr. Wharton and the English captain. Two or three old men and women, with a few straggling boys, brought up the rear. Captain Lawton sat in his saddle, in rigid silence, until the bearers came opposite to his position, and then, for the first time, Harvey raised his eyes from the ground, and saw the enemy that he dreaded so near him. The first impulse of the peddler was certainly flight; but recovering his recollection, he fixed his eye on the coffin of his parent, and passed the dragoon with a firm step but swelling heart. The trooper slowly lifted his cap, and continued uncovered until Mr. Wharton and his son had moved by, when, accompanied by the surgeon, he rode leisurely in the rear, maintaining an inflexible silence.
Caesar emerged from the cellar kitchen of the cottage, and with a face of settled solemnity, added himself to the number of the followers of the funeral, though with a humble mien and at a most respectful distance from the horsemen. The old negro had placed around his arm, a little above the elbow, a napkin of unsullied whiteness, it being the only time since his departure from the city that he had enjoyed an opportunity of exhibiting himself in the garniture of servile mourning. He was a great lover of propriety, and had been a little stimulated to this display by a desire to show his sable friend from Georgia all the decencies of a New York funeral; and the ebullition of his zeal went off very well, producing no other result than a mild lecture from Miss Peyton at his return, on the fitness of things. The attendance of the black was thought well enough in itself; but the napkin was deemed a superfluous exhibition of ceremony, at the funeral of a man who had performed all the menial offices in his own person.
The graveyard was an inclosure on the grounds of Mr. Wharton, which had been fenced with stone and set apart for the purpose, by that gentleman, some years before. It was not, however, intended as a burial place for any of his own family. Until the fire, which raged as the British troops took possession of New York, had laid Trinity in
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