The Spy: Condensed for use in schools

CHAPTER XXII.
DUNWOODIE GAINS HIS SUIT, AND CAPTAIN WHARTON HIS FREEDOM

On joining Miss Peyton, Frances learnt that Dunwoodie was not yet returned; although, with a view to relieve Henry from the importunities of the supposed fanatic, he had desired a very respectable divine of their own church to ride up from the river and offer his services. This gentleman was already arrived.

To the eager inquiries of Miss Peyton, relative to her success in her romantic excursion, Frances could say no more than that she was bound to be silent, and to recommend the same precaution to the good maiden also. There was a smile playing around the beautiful mouth of Frances, while she uttered this injunction, which satisfied her aunt that all was as it should be. She was urging her niece to take some refreshment after her fatiguing expedition, when the noise of a horseman riding to the door announced the return of the major. The heart of Frances bounded as she listened to his approaching footsteps. She, however, had not time to rally her thoughts before he entered.

The countenance of Peyton was flushed, and an air of vexation and disappointment pervaded his manner.

“’Twas imprudent, Frances! nay, it was unkind,” he cried, throwing himself in a chair, “to fly at the very moment that I had assured him of safety! There was no danger impending. He had the promise of Harper, and it is a word never to be doubted. Oh! Frances! Frances! had you known the man, you would never have distrusted his assurance, nor would you have again reduced me to the distressing alternative.”

“What alternative?” asked Frances, pitying his emotions deeply, but eagerly seizing upon every circumstance to prolong the interview.

“What alternative! Am I not compelled to spend this night in the saddle to recapture your brother, when I had thought to lay my head on its pillow, with the happy consciousness of having contributed to his release?”

She bent toward him, and timidly took one of his hands, while with the other she gently removed the curls from his burning brow. “Why go at all, dear Peyton?” she asked; “you have done much for your country, and she cannot exact such a sacrifice as this at your hand.”

“Frances! Miss Wharton!” exclaimed the youth, springing on his feet and pacing the floor with a cheek that burned through its brown covering, and an eye that sparkled with wounded integrity; “it is not my country, but my honor, that requires the sacrifice. Has he not fled from a guard of my own corps?”

“Peyton, dear Peyton,” said Frances, “would you kill my brother?”

“Would I not die for him?” exclaimed Dunwoodie, as he turned to her more mildly. “You know I would; but I am distracted with the cruel surmise to which this step of Henry’s subjects me. Frances, I leave you with a heavy heart; pity me, but feel no concern for your brother; he must again become a prisoner, but every hair of his head is sacred.”

“Stop! Dunwoodie, I conjure you,” cried Frances, gasping for breath, as she noticed that the hand of the clock still wanted many minutes to the desired hour; “before you go on your errand of fastidious¹²⁷ duty, read this note that Henry has left for you, and which, doubtless, he thought he was writing to the friend of his youth.”

“Where got you this note?” exclaimed the youth, glancing his eyes over its contents. “Poor Henry, you are indeed my friend! If any one wishes me happiness, it is you.”

“He does, he does,” cried Frances, eagerly; “he wishes you every happiness. Believe it; every word is true.”

“I do believe him, lovely girl, and he refers me to you for its confirmation. Would that I could trust equally to your affections!”

“You may, Peyton,” said Frances, looking up with innocent confidence to her lover.

“Then read for yourself, and verify your words,” interrupted Dunwoodie, holding the note towards her.

Frances received it in astonishment, and read the following:

“Life is too precious to be trusted to uncertainties. I leave you, Peyton, unknown to all but Cæsar, and I recommend him to your mercy. But there is a care that weighs me to the earth. Look at my aged and infirm parent. He will be reproached for the supposed crime of his son. Look at those helpless sisters that I leave behind me without a protector. Prove to me that you love us all. Let the clergyman whom you will bring with you unite you this night to Frances, and become at once brother, son, and husband.”

The paper fell from the hands of Frances, and she endeavored to raise her eyes to the face of Dunwoodie, but they sank abashed to the floor.

“Speak, Frances,” murmured Dunwoodie; “may I summon my good kinswoman? Determine, for time presses.”

“Stop, Peyton! I cannot enter into such a solemn engagement with a fraud upon my conscience. I have seen Henry since his escape, and time is all-important to him. Here is my hand; if, with this knowledge of the consequences of delay, you will not reject it, it is freely yours.”

“Reject it!” cried the delighted youth; “I take it as the richest gift of Heaven. There is time enough for us all. Two hours will take me through the hills; and at noon to-morrow I will return with Washington’s pardon for your brother, and Henry will help to enliven our nuptials.”¹²⁸

“Then meet me here in ten minutes,” said Frances, greatly relieved by unburdening her mind, and filled with the hope of securing Henry’s safety, “and I will return and take those vows which will bind me to you forever.”

Dunwoodie paused only to press her to his bosom, and flew to communicate his wishes to the priest.

Dunwoodie and the clergyman were soon there. Frances, silently, and without affectation¹²⁹ of reserve, placed in his hand the wedding-ring of her own mother, and after some little time spent in arranging Mr. Wharton and herself, Miss Peyton suffered the ceremony to proceed.

The clock stood directly before the eyes of Frances, and she turned many an anxious glance at the dial; but the solemn language of the priest soon caught her attention, and her mind became intent upon the vows she was uttering. The ceremony was quickly over, and as the clergyman closed the words of benediction the clock told the hour of nine. This was the time that was deemed so important, and Frances felt as if a mighty load was at once removed from her heart.

The noise of a horseman was heard approaching the house, and Dunwoodie was yet taking leave of his bride and aunt, when an officer was shown into the room by his own man.

The gentleman wore the dress of an aid-de-camp, and the major knew him to be one of the military family of Washington.

“Major Dunwoodie,” he said, after bowing to the ladies, “the commander-in-chief has directed me to give you these orders.”

He executed his mission, and, pleading duty, took his leave immediately.

“Here, indeed,” cried the major, “is an unexpected turn in the whole affair. But I understand it: Harper has got my letter, and already we feel his influence.”

“Have you news affecting Henry?” cried Frances, springing to his side.

“Listen, and you shall judge.”

“Sir, – Upon the receipt of this, you will concentrate your squadron, so as to be in front of a covering party which the enemy has sent up in front of his foragers, by ten o’clock to-morrow on the heights of Croton,¹³⁰ where you will find a body of foot to support you. The escape of the English spy has been reported to me, but his arrest is unimportant, compared with the duty I now assign you. You will, therefore, recall your men, if any are in pursuit, and endeavor to defeat the enemy forthwith. Your obedient servant,

“Geo. Washington.”

“Thank God!” cried Dunwoodie, “my hands are washed of Henry’s recapture; I can now move to my duty with honor.”

“And with prudence, too, dear Peyton,” said Frances, with a face as pale as death. “Remember, Dunwoodie, you leave behind you claims on your life.”

The youth dwelt on her lovely but pallid features with rapture, and, as he folded her to his heart, exclaimed:

“For your sake I will, lovely innocent!” Frances sobbed a moment on his bosom, and he tore himself from her presence.

The peddler and his companion soon reached the valley, and, after pausing to listen, and hearing no sounds which announced that pursuers were abroad, they entered the highway. After walking at a great rate for three hours they suddenly diverged from the road, which inclined to the east, and held their course directly across the hills in a due south direction. This movement was made, the peddler informed his companion, in order to avoid the parties who constantly patrolled in the southern entrance of the Highlands, as well as to shorten the distance by travelling in a straight line.

The peddler became more guarded in the manner in which they proceeded, and took divers precautions to prevent meeting any moving parties of the Americans.

A steep and laborious ascent brought them from the level of the tide-waters to the high lands that form, in this part of the river, the eastern banks of the Hudson. The day was now opened, and objects could be seen in the distance with distinctness. To Henry and the peddler the view displayed only the square yards and lofty masts of a vessel of war riding a few miles below them.

“There, Captain Wharton,” said the peddler – “there is a safe resting-place for you; America has no arm that can reach you if you gain the deck of that ship.”

By following the bank of the river, Birch led the way free from observation until they reached a point opposite to the frigate,¹³¹ when, by making a signal, a boat was induced to approach.

Some time was spent and much precaution used before the seamen would trust themselves ashore; but Henry having finally succeeded in making the officer in command of the party credit his assertions, he was able to rejoin his companions in arms in safety.

Before taking leave of Birch, the captain handed him his purse, which was tolerably well supplied for the times.

The boat pulled from the shore, and Birch turned on his heel, drawing his breath like one relieved, and shot up the hills with the strides for which he was famous.

CHAPTER XXIII.
WASHINGTON’S LAST MEETING WITH THE SPY

It was at the close of a stormy day in September that a large assemblage of officers was collected near the door of a building that was situated in the heart of the American troops, who held the Jerseys. The age, the dress, and the dignity of deportment of most of these warriors indicated them to be of high rank, but to one in particular was paid a deference¹³² and obedience that announced him to be of the highest. His dress was plain, but it bore the usual military distinctions of command. He was mounted on a noble steed of a deep bay, and a group of young men, in gayer attire, evidently awaited his pleasure and did his bidding. Many a hat was lifted as its owner addressed this officer, and when he spoke, a profound attention, exceeding the respect of mere professional etiquette,¹³³ was exhibited on every countenance. At length the general raised his own hat and bowed gravely to all around him. The salute was returned, and the party dispersed, leaving the officer without a single attendant except his body servants and one aid-de-camp. Dismounting, he stepped back a few paces, and for a moment viewed the condition of his horse with the eye of one who well understood the animal; then, casting a brief but expressive glance at his aid, he retired into the building, followed by that gentleman.

On entering the apartment that was apparently fitted for his reception, he took a seat, and continued for a long time in a thoughtful attitude, like one in the habit of communing much with himself. During this silence, the aid-de-camp stood in expectation of orders. At length the general raised his eyes, and spoke in those low, placid tones that seemed natural to him:

“Has the man I wished to see arrived, sir?”

“He waits the pleasure of your excellency.”

“I will receive him here, and alone, if you please.”

The aid bowed and withdrew. In a few minutes the door again opened, and a figure, gliding into the apartment, stood modestly at a distance from the general, without speaking. His entrance was unheard by the officer, who sat gazing at the fire, still absorbed in his own meditations. Several minutes passed, when he spoke to himself in an undertone:

“To-morrow we must raise the curtain, and expose our plans. May Heaven prosper them!”

“Harvey Birch,” he said, turning to the stranger, “the time has arrived when our connection must cease; henceforth and forever we must be strangers.”

The peddler dropped the folds of the great-coat that concealed his features, and gazed for a moment earnestly at the face of the speaker; then, dropping his head upon his bosom, he said, meekly:

“If it be your excellency’s pleasure.”

“It is necessary. Since I have filled the station which I now hold, it has become my duty to know many men who, like yourself, have been my instruments in procuring intelligence. You have I trusted more than all; I early saw in you a regard to truth and principle that, I am pleased to say, has never deceived me. You alone know my secret agents in the city, and on your fidelity depend, not only their fortunes, but their lives.”

He paused, as if to reflect in order that full justice might be done to the peddler, and then continued:

“I believe you are one of the very few that I have employed who have acted faithfully to our cause; and, while you have passed as a spy of the enemy, have never given intelligence that you were not permitted to divulge. To me, and to me only of all the world, you seem to have acted with strong attachment to the liberties of America.”

During this address, Harvey gradually raised his head from his bosom, until it reached the highest point of elevation; a faint tinge gathered in his cheeks, and, as the officer concluded, it was diffused over his whole countenance in a deep glow, while he stood, proudly swelling with his emotions, but with eyes that modestly sought the feet of the speaker.

“It is now my duty to pay you for these services; hitherto you have postponed receiving your reward, and the debt has become a heavy one. I wish not to undervalue your dangers; here are a hundred doubloons;¹³⁴ you will remember the poverty of our country, and attribute to it the smallness of your pay.”

The peddler raised his eyes to the countenance of the speaker; but, as the other held forth the money, he moved back, as if refusing the bag.

“It is not much for your services and risks, I acknowledge,” continued the general, “but it is all that I have to offer; at the end of the campaign it may be in my power to increase it.”

“Does your excellency think that I have exposed my life and blasted my character for money?”

“If not for money, what then?”

“What has brought your excellency into the field? For what do you daily and hourly expose your precious life to battle and the halter? What is there about me to mourn, when such men as you risk their all for our country? No, no, no – not a dollar of your gold will I touch; poor America has need of it all.”

The bag dropped from the hand of the officer, and fell at the feet of the peddler, where it lay neglected during the remainder of the interview. The officer looked steadily at the face of his companion, and continued:

“You will soon be old; the prime of your days is already past; what have you to subsist on?”

“These!” said the peddler, stretching forth his hands, that already were embrowned with toil.

“But those may fail you; take enough to secure a support to your age. Remember your risks and care. I have told you that the characters of men who are much esteemed in life depend on your secrecy; what pledge can I give them of your fidelity?”

“Tell them,” said Birch, advancing and unconsciously resting one foot on the bag – “tell them that I would not take the gold!”

The composed features of the officer relaxed into a smile of benevolence, and he grasped the hand of the peddler firmly.

“Now, indeed, I know you; and although the same reasons which have hitherto compelled me to expose your valuable life will still exist, and may prevent my openly asserting your character, in private I can always be your friend. Fail not to apply to me when in want or suffering, and so long as God giveth to me, so long will I freely share with a man who feels so nobly and acts so well. If sickness or want should ever assail you, and peace once more smile upon our efforts, seek the gate of him whom you have so often met as Harper, and he will not blush to acknowledge you in his true character.”

“It is little that I need in this life,” said Harvey; “so long as God gives me health and honest industry, I can never want in this country; but to know that your excellency is my friend, is a blessing that I prize more than all the gold of England’s treasury.”

The officer stood for a few moments in the attitude of intense thought. He then drew to him the desk, and wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, and gave it to the peddler.

“That Providence destines this country to some great and glorious fate I must believe, while I witness the patriotism that pervades the bosoms of her lowliest citizens,” he said. “It must be dreadful to a mind like yours to descend into the grave branded as a foe to liberty; but you already know the lives that would be sacrificed, should your real character be revealed. It is impossible to do you justice now, but I fearlessly entrust you with this certificate; should we never meet again, it may be serviceable to your children.”

“Children!” exclaimed the peddler. “Can I give to a family the infamy of my name?”

The officer gazed at the strong emotion he exhibited with pain, and he made a slight movement towards the gold; but it was arrested by the expression of his companion’s face. Harvey saw the intention, and shook his head, as he continued more mildly:

“It is, indeed, a treasure that your excellency gives me; it is safe, too. There are men living who could say that my life was nothing to me, compared to your secrets. The paper that I told you was lost I swallowed when taken last by the Virginians. It was the only time I ever deceived your excellency, and it shall be the last. Yes, this is, indeed, a treasure to me. Perhaps,” he continued, with a melancholy smile, “it may be known after my death who was my friend; but if it should not, there are none to grieve for me.”

“Remember,” said the officer, with strong emotion, “that in me you will always have a secret friend; but openly I cannot know you.”

“I know it, I know it,” said Birch; “I knew it when I took the service. ’Tis probably the last time that I shall ever see your excellency. May God pour down his choicest blessings on your head!” He paused, and moved towards the door. The officer followed him with eyes that expressed deep interest. Once more the peddler turned, and seemed to gaze on the placid but commanding features of the general with regret and reverence, and then, bowing low, withdrew.

CHAPTER XXIV.
DEATH OF THE SPY. – A REVELATION

It was thirty-three years after the interview which we have just related that an American army was once more arrayed against the troops of England; but the scene was transferred from the banks of the Hudson to those of the Niagara.¹³⁵

It was the evening of the 25th of July of that bloody year, when two young officers were seen standing on the table-rock, contemplating the great cataract with an interest that seemed to betray that they were gazing for the first time at the wonder of the western world. A profound silence was observed by each, until the companion of the officer suddenly started, and pointing eagerly with his sword into the abyss¹³⁶ beneath, exclaimed:

“See, Wharton, there is a man crossing in the very eddies of the cataract, and in a skiff no bigger than an egg-shell.”

“He has a knapsack – it is probably a soldier,” returned the other. “Let us meet him at the ladder, Mason, and learn his tidings.”

Some time was expended in reaching the spot where the adventurer was intercepted. Contrary to the expectations of the young soldiers, he proved to be a man far advanced in life, and evidently no follower of the camp.

A few words of salutation, and, on the part of the young men, of surprise that one so aged should venture so near the whirlpools of the cataract, were exchanged, when the old man inquired, with a voice that began to manifest the tremor of age, the news from the contending armies.

“We whipped the red-coats here the other day, among the grass on the Chippewa¹³⁷ plains,” said the one who was called Mason.

“Perhaps you have a son among the soldiers,” said his companion, with a milder demeanor,¹³⁸ and an air of kindness; “if so, tell me his name and regiment, and I will take you to him.”

The old man shook his head, and answered:

“No; I am alone in the world!”

“You should have added, Captain Dunwoodie,” cried his careless comrade, “if you could find either; for nearly half our army has marched down the road, and may be, by this time, under the walls of Fort George,¹³⁹ for anything that we know to the contrary.”

The old man stopped suddenly, and looked earnestly from one of his companions to the other; the action being observed by the soldiers, they paused also.

“Did I hear right?” the stranger uttered, raising his hand to screen his eyes from the rays of the setting sun. “What did he call you?”

“My name is Wharton Dunwoodie,” replied the youth, smiling.

The stranger motioned silently for him to remove his hat, which the youth did accordingly, and his fair hair blew aside like curls of silk, and opened the whole of his ingenuous countenance to the inspection of the other.

“’Tis like our native land!” exclaimed the old man with vehemence; “improving with time. God has blessed both.”

“Why do you stare thus, Lieutenant Mason?” cried Captain Dunwoodie, laughing a little; “you show more astonishment than when you saw the falls.”

“Oh, the falls! they are a thing to be looked at on a moon-shiny night, by your aunt Sarah and that gay old bachelor, Colonel Singleton.”

“Come, come, Tom, no jokes about my good aunt, I beg; she is kindness itself; and I have heard it whispered that her youth was not altogether happy.”

“Why, as to rumor,” said Mason, “there goes one in Accomac, that Colonel Singleton offers himself to her regularly every Valentine’s Day; and there are some who add that your old great-aunt helps his suit.”

“Aunt Jeanette!” said Dunwoodie, laughing; “dear, good soul, she thinks but little of marriage in any shape, I believe, since the death of Dr. Sitgreaves.”

“The last time I was at General Dunwoodie’s plantation, that yellow, sharp-nosed housekeeper of your mother’s took me into the pantry, and said that the colonel was no despicable match, as she called it.”

“Quite likely,” returned the captain; “Katy Haynes is no bad calculator.”

The old man listened to each word as it was uttered, with the most intense interest; but, toward the conclusion of the dialogue, the earnest attention of his countenance changed to a kind of inward smile. Mason paid but little attention to the expression of his features, and continued:

“To me she is selfishness embodied.”

“Her selfishness does but little harm,” returned Dunwoodie. “One of her greatest difficulties is her aversion to the blacks. She says that she never saw but one that she liked.”

“And who was he?”

“His name was Cæsar; he was a house-servant of my late grandfather Wharton. My mother always speaks of him with great affection. Both Cæsar and Katy came to Virginia with my mother when she married. My mother was – ”

“An angel!” interrupted the old man, in a voice that startled the young soldiers by its abruptness and energy.

“Did you know her?” cried the son, with a glow of pleasure on his cheek.

The reply of the stranger was interrupted by sudden and heavy explosions of artillery, which were immediately followed by continued volleys of small-arms, and in a few minutes the air was filled with the tumult of a warm and well-contested battle.

Everything in the American camp announced an approaching struggle. The troops were in motion, and a movement made to support the division of the army which was already engaged. Night had set in before the reserve and irregulars reached the foot of Lundy’s Lane,¹⁴⁰ a road that diverged from the river and crossed a conical eminence at no great distance from the Niagara highway. The summit of the hill was crowned with the cannon of the British, and in the flat beneath was the remnant of Scott’s¹⁴¹ gallant brigade, which for a long time had held an unequal contest with distinguished bravery. A new line was interposed, and one column of the Americans directed to charge the hill, parallel to the road. This column took the English in flank, and bayoneting their artillerists, gained possession of the cannon. They were immediately joined by their comrades, and the enemy was swept from the hill.

But large reënforcements were joining the English general momentarily, and their troops were too brave to rest easy under defeat. Repeated and bloody charges were made to recover the guns, but in all they were repulsed with slaughter. During the last of these struggles, the ardor of the youthful captain whom we have mentioned urged him to lead his men some distance in advance, to scatter a daring party of the enemy. He succeeded, but in returning to the line missed his lieutenant from the station that he ought to have occupied. Soon after this repulse, which was the last, orders were given to the shattered troops to return to the camp. The British were nowhere to be seen, and preparations were made to take in such of the wounded as could be moved.

At this moment Wharton Dunwoodie, impelled by affection for his friend, seized a lighted fusee,¹⁴² and taking two of his men, went himself in quest of his body, where he was supposed to have fallen.

Mason was found on the side of the hill, seated with great composure, but unable to walk from a fractured leg. Dunwoodie saw and flew to the side of his comrade, exclaiming:

“Ah! dear Tom, I knew I should find you the nearest man to the enemy.”

“Softly, softly; handle me tenderly,” replied the lieutenant. “No; there is a brave fellow still nearer than myself, and who he can be I know not. He rushed out of our smoke, near my platoon, to make a prisoner or some such thing, but, poor fellow, he never came back; there he lies just over the hillock. I have spoken to him several times, but I fancy he is past answering.”

Dunwoodie went to the spot, and to his astonishment beheld the stranger.

“It is the old man who knew my father and mother,” cried the youth; “for their sake he shall have honorable burial. Lift him, and let him be carried in; his bones shall rest on native soil.”

The men approached to obey. He was lying on his back, with his face exposed to the glaring light of the fusee; his eyes were closed, as if in slumber; his lips, sunken with years, were slightly moved from their position, but it seemed more like a smile than a convulsion which had caused the change. A soldier’s musket lay near him; his hands were pressed upon his breast, and one of them contained a substance that glittered like silver. Dunwoodie stooped, and moving the limbs, perceived the place where the bullet had found a passage to his heart. The subject of his last care was a tin box, through which the fatal lead had gone; and the dying moments of the old man must have been passed in drawing it from his bosom. Dunwoodie opened it, and found a paper in which, to his astonishment, he read the following:

“Circumstances of political importance, which involve the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what this paper now reveals. Harvey Birch has for years been a faithful and unrequited¹⁴³ servant of his country. Though man does not, may God reward him for his conduct!

“Geo. Washington.”

It was the Spy of the Neutral Ground, who died as he had lived, devoted to his country, and a martyr to her liberties.