The Spy by James Fenimore Cooper (free biff chip and kipper ebooks .TXT) 📕

a demijohn of fair proportions, which had been ostentatiously placed on high by Betty as the object most worthy of notice. Lawton soon learned that it was teeming with the real amber-colored juice of the grape, and had been sent from the Locusts, as an offering to Major Dunwoodie, from his friend Captain Wharton of the royal army.

“And a royal gift it is,” said the grinning subaltern, who made the explanation. “The major gives us an entertainment in honor of our victory, and you see the principal expense is borne as it should be, by the enemy. Zounds! I am thinking that after we have primed with such stuff, we could charge through Sir Henry’s headquarters, and carry off the knight himself.”

The captain of dragoons was in no manner displeased at the prospect of terminating so pleasantly a day that had been so agreeably commenced. He was soon surrounded by his comrades, who made many eager inquiries concerning his adventures, while the surgeon proceeded, with certain quakings of the heart, to examine into the state of his wounded. Enormous fires were snapping in the chimneys of the house, superseding the necessity of candles, by the bright light which was thrown from the blazing piles. The group within were all young men and tried soldiers; in number they were rather more than a dozen, and their manners and conversation were a strange mixture of the bluntness of the partisan with the manners of gentlemen. Their dresses were neat, though plain; and a never-failing topic amongst them was the performance and quality of their horses. Some were endeavoring to sleep on the benches which lined the walls, some were walking the apartments, and others were seated in earnest discussion on subjects connected with the business of their lives. Occasionally, as the door of the kitchen opened, the hissing sounds of the frying pans and the inviting savor of the food created a stagnation in all other employments; even the sleepers, at such moments, would open their eyes, and raise their heads, to reconnoiter the state of the preparations. All this time Dunwoodie sat by himself, gazing at the fire, and lost in reflections which none of his officers presumed to disturb. He had made earnest inquiries of Sitgreaves after the condition of Singleton, during which a profound and respectful silence was maintained in the room; but as soon as he had ended, and resumed his seat, the usual ease and freedom prevailed.

The arrangement of the table was a matter of but little concern to Mrs. Flanagan; and Caesar would have been sadly scandalized at witnessing the informality with which various dishes, each bearing a wonderful resemblance to the others, were placed before so many gentlemen of consideration. In taking their places at the board, the strictest attention was paid to precedency; for, notwithstanding the freedom of manners which prevailed in the corps, the points of military etiquette were at all times observed, with something approaching to religious veneration. Most of the guests had been fasting too long to be in any degree fastidious in their appetites; but the case was different with Captain Lawton; he felt an unaccountable loathing at the exhibition of Betty’s food, and could not refrain from making a few passing comments on the condition of the knives, and the clouded aspect of the plates. The good nature and the personal affection of Betty for the offender, restrained her, for some time, from answering his innuendoes, until Lawton, having ventured to admit a piece of the black meat into his mouth, inquired, with the affectation of a spoiled child,—

“What kind of animal might this have been when living, Mrs. Flanagan?”

“Sure, captain, and wasn’t it the ould cow?” replied the sutler, with a warmth that proceeded partly from dissatisfaction at the complaints of her favorite, and partly from grief at the loss of the deceased.

“What!” roared the trooper, stopping short as he was about to swallow his morsel, “ancient Jenny!”

“The devil!” cried another, dropping his knife and fork, “she who made the campaign of the Jerseys with us?”

“The very same,” replied the mistress of the hotel, with a piteous aspect of woe; “a gentle baste, and one that could and did live on less than air, at need. Sure, gentlemen, ’tis awful to have to eat sitch an ould friend.”

“And has she sunk to this?” said Lawton, pointing with his knife, to the remnants on the table.

“Nay, captain,” said Betty, with spirit, “I sould two of her quarters to some of your troop; but divil the word did I tell the boys what an ould frind it was they had bought, for fear it might damage their appetites.”

“Fury!” cried the trooper, with affected anger, “I shall have my fellows as limber as supple-jacks on such fare; afraid of an Englishman as a Virginian negro is of his driver.”

“Well,” said Lieutenant Mason, dropping his knife and fork in a kind of despair, “my jaws have more sympathy than many men’s hearts. They absolutely decline making any impression on the relics of their old acquaintance.”

“Try a drop of the gift,” said Betty, soothingly, pouring a large allowance of the wine into a bowl, and drinking it off as taster to the corps. “Faith, ’tis but a wishy-washy sort of stuff after all!”

The ice once broken, however, a clear glass of wine was handed to Dunwoodie, who, bowing to his companions, drank the liquor in the midst of a profound silence. For a few glasses there was much formality observed, and sundry patriotic toasts and sentiments were duly noticed by the company. The liquor, however, performed its wonted office; and before the second sentinel at the door had been relieved, all recollection of the dinner and their cares was lost in the present festivity. Dr. Sitgreaves did not return in season to partake of Jenny, but he was in time to receive his fair proportion of Captain Wharton’s present.

“A song, a song from Captain Lawton!” cried two or three of the party in a breath, on observing the failure of some of the points of good-fellowship in the trooper. “Silence, for the song of Captain Lawton.”

“Gentlemen,” returned Lawton, his dark eyes swimming with the bumpers he had finished, though his head was as impenetrable as a post; “I am not much of a nightingale, but, under the favor of your good wishes, I consent to comply with the demand.”

“Now, Jack,” said Sitgreaves, nodding on his seat, “remember the air I taught you, and—stop, I have a copy of the words in my pocket.”

“Forbear, forbear, good doctor,” said the trooper, filling his glass with great deliberation; “I never could wheel round those hard names. Gentlemen, I will give you a humble attempt of my own.”

“Silence, for Captain Lawton’s song!” roared five or six at once; when the trooper proceeded, in a fine, full tone, to sing the following words to a well-known bacchanalian air, several of his comrades helping him through the chorus with a fervor that shook the crazy edifice they were in:—

Now push the mug, my jolly boys,
    And live, while live we can;
To-morrow’s sun may end your joys,
    For brief’s the hour of man.
And he who bravely meets the foe
His lease of life can never know.
        Old mother Flanagan
        Come and fill the can again!
        For you can fill, and we can swill,
        Good Betty Flanagan.

If love of life pervades your breast,
    Or love of ease your frame,
Quit honor’s path for peaceful rest,
    And bear a coward’s name;
For soon and late, we danger know,
And fearless on the saddle go.
        Old mother, etc.

When foreign foes invade the land,
    And wives and sweethearts call,
In freedom’s cause we’ll bravely stand
    Or will as bravely fall;
In this fair home the fates have given
We’ll live as lords, or live in heaven.
        Old mother, etc.

At each appeal made to herself, by the united voices of the choir, Betty invariably advanced and complied literally with the request contained in the chorus, to the infinite delight of the singers, and with no small participation in the satisfaction on her account. The hostess was provided with a beverage more suited to the high seasoning to which she had accustomed her palate, than the tasteless present of Captain Wharton; by which means Betty had managed, with tolerable facility, to keep even pace with the exhilaraton of her guests. The applause received by Captain Lawton was general, with the exception of the surgeon, who rose from the bench during the first chorus, and paced the floor, in a flow of classical indignation. The bravos and bravissimos drowned all other noises for a short time; but as they gradually ceased, the doctor turned to the musician, and exclaimed with heat,—

“Captain Lawton, I marvel that a gentleman, and a gallant officer, can find no other subject for his muse, in these times of trial, than in such beastly invocations to that notorious follower of the camp, the filthy Elizabeth Flanagan. Methinks the goddess of Liberty could furnish a more noble inspiration, and the sufferings of your country a more befitting theme.”

“Heyday!” shouted the hostess, advancing towards him in a threatening attitude; “and who is it that calls me filthy? Master Squirt! Master Popgun—”

“Peace!” said Dunwoodie, in a voice that was exerted but a little more than common, but which was succeeded by the stillness of death. “Woman, leave the room. Dr. Sitgreaves, I call you to your seat, to wait the order of the revels.”

“Proceed, proceed,” said the surgeon, drawing himself up in an attitude of dignified composure. “I trust, Major Dunwoodie, I am not unacquainted with the rules of decorum, nor ignorant of the by-laws of good-fellowship.” Betty made a hasty but somewhat devious retreat to her own dominions, being unaccustomed to dispute the orders of the commanding officer.

“Major Dunwoodie will honor us with a sentimental song,” said Lawton, bowing to his leader, with the collected manner he so well knew how to assume.

The major hesitated a moment, and then sang, with fine execution, the following words:—

Some love the heats of southern suns,
Where’s life’s warm current maddening runs,
    In one quick circling stream;
But dearer far’s the mellow light
Which trembling shines, reflected bright
    In Luna’s milder beam.

Some love the tulip’s gaudier dyes,
Where deepening blue with yellow vies,
    And gorgeous beauty glows;
But happier he, whose bridal wreath,
By love entwined, is found to breathe
    The sweetness of the rose.

The voice of Dunwoodie never lost its authority with his inferiors; and the applause which followed his song, though by no means so riotous as that which succeeded the effort of the captain, was much more flattering.

“If, sir,” said the doctor, after joining in the plaudits of his companions, “you would but learn to unite classical allusions with your delicate imagination you would become a pretty amateur poet.”

“He who criticizes ought to be able to perform,” said Dunwoodie with a smile. “I call on Dr. Sitgreaves for a specimen of the style he admires.”

“Dr. Sitgreaves’ song! Dr. Sitgreaves’ song!” echoed all at the table with delight; “a classical ode from Dr. Sitgreaves!”

The surgeon made a complacent bow, took the remnant of his glass, and gave a few preliminary hems, that served hugely to delight three or four young cornets at the foot of the table. He then commenced singing, in a cracked voice, and to anything but a tune, the following ditty:—

Hast thou ever felt love’s dart, dearest,
    Or breathed his trembling sigh—
Thought him, afar, was ever nearest,
    Before that sparkling eye?
Then hast thou known what ’tis to feel
The pain that Galen could not heal.

“Hurrah!” shouted Lawton. “Archibald eclipses the Muses themselves; his words flow like the sylvan stream by moonlight, and his melody is a crossbreed of the nightingale and the owl.”

“Captain Lawton,” cried the exasperated operator, “it is one thing to despise the lights of classical learning, and another to be despised for your own ignorance!”

A loud summons at the door of the building created a dead halt in the uproar, and the dragoons instinctively caught up their arms, to be prepared for the worst. The door was opened, and the Skinners entered, dragging in the peddler, bending beneath the load of his pack.

“Which is Captain Lawton?” said the leader of the gang, gazing around him in some little astonishment.

“He waits your pleasure,” said the trooper dryly.

“Then here I deliver to your hands a condemned traitor. This is Harvey
Birch, the peddler spy.”

Lawton started as he looked his old acquaintance in the face, and, turning to the Skinner with a lowering look, he asked,—

“And who are you, sir, that speak so freely of your neighbors? But,” bowing to Dunwoodie, “your pardon, sir; here is the commanding officer; to him you will please address yourself.”

“No,” said the man, sullenly, “it is to you I deliver the peddler, and from you I claim my reward.”

“Are you Harvey Birch?” said Dunwoodie, advancing with an air of authority that instantly drove the Skinner to a corner of the room.

“I am,” said Birch, proudly.

“And a traitor to your