A Revolutionary Story.CHAPTERIII.[Continued frompage 104.]
[Continued frompage 104.]
Wehave related the bitter disappointment experienced by Colonel Joinly, at being deprived of the means of release from his captivity, and of even obtaining a short respite for the purpose of visiting his family; nor was his sorrow mitigated by any propitious event. Time rolled on, and the evils of his condition seemed rather to increase. The number of the prisoners had accumulated, and their miseries were aggravated by all the possible horrors of the prison house;—unhealthy provisions, foul apartments, and loathsome atmosphere, attended by disease and death.
His own elastic constitution was also rapidly bending beneath his various cares, his incessant labors, the impuritieswhich he breathed, the scenes he witnessed, and gnawing anxieties for his family and his home. At last, in one of his fits of depression, he poured out his whole soul in a letter to his wife. When she received it, it sank into her inmost soul. Accustomed, however, to confine her cares and anxieties to her own breast, she did not impart the substance of her letter to her already depressed and anxious children.
She revolved the subject, however, deeply in her own mind; yet what could she, a woman, do? Even could she devise the means of escape for her husband, she knew him too well to believe that he would take advantage of it. She knew his chivalrous pride; his deep sense of duty; his devotion to the cause of his country and of humanity; and she believed that these mingled feelings would unite to keep him at his post until some arrangement could be made to supply his place, and provide for the miserable sufferers whose only comfort he seemed to be.
We may not say that there was no momentary repining, no rebel suggestions of the heart against the ways of Providence, in these stern events. There were moments when she felt it impossible to be passive. Again and again, in the solitude of her chamber, with clenched hand and flashing eye, she said, “I must do something—I must do something.” It is often easier to rush into some headlong enterprise than to submit with patient dignity to the dark, uncertain course of time; to bow with resignation to the will of Heaven, saying, “Thy will be done.”
This beautiful and lofty heroism is however no uncommon grace of woman; and Madam Joinly, after the storm of feeling and affection had subsided into a calm, sat down and wrote a cheering, submissive, and consolatory letter to her husband. When she had nearly completed it, she left it, marked with her tears, upon the table in the library, and went out of the room, intending soon to return.
She was, however, detained; and during her absence, her eldest son, whose name was Worthington, came accidentally into the room. His eye fell upon the two letters, and he hastily ran them over. He had known something before of his father’s anxiety and his mother’s sorrow, but the whole force of their distress was now for the first time unfolded to him. He was a youth of quick perception, great self-dependence, and firm resolution. Saying nothing to any member of the family, and treasuring the knowledge he had acquired in his own heart, he strode rapidly down to the river, leaped into a light boat, and pushed off from the shore. Applying the oars, he bent them with his vigorous strokes, and the little shallop glided out like an arrow upon the broad water of the sound.
The sea was smooth, and young Joinly, as if he could now breathe freely, drew in his oars, and permitted the boat to float at the will of the waves. He then gave himself up to thought. The resolution to do something was speedily fixed; but what should he attempt? Should he go to General Washington, and beg for his interference? Should he proceed to New York, and throw himself at the feet of the British general, and solicit the liberation of his parent? Should he proceed to the scene of his father’s captivity, and devise the means of his escape?
These suggestions were, one after another, considered and rejected, partly as likely to prove ineffectual, but more, perhaps, because they did not recommend themselves to the young man’s somewhat bold and daring humor. He was, indeed, wrought up to such a pitch of excitement, that his heart found relief incontemplating the most hazardous enterprises.
While he was ruminating over his plans, a vessel from the eastward hove in sight. As her tall masts and snowy canvass rose to view over the bending water, the British flag became visible, and young Joinly soon discovered that she was a British frigate of considerable size. With a slow and stealing progress, she advanced directly toward his position. He waited till she was within the distance of two or three miles, when he applied his oar and swept up toward the mouth of the river.
After a short space, he paused and bent his eye upon the frigate, now at no great distance. He was well-skilled in marine affairs, and his practised eye soon perceived that it was the very ship which, several years before, had destroyed the hospital on Duck Island. His mind turning upon this event, the captivity of his father, and the desolation of the whole country, and all proceeding from one source—British power—he fixed his eyes sternly upon the flag of the ship before him, and stretching forth his clenched fist, and uttering a curse which we will not repeat, he shook it in impotent defiance.
At this instant, he saw a mass of white smoke unfold itself from the side of the ship; a few seconds afterwards he heard the report of a cannon, and, nearly at the same moment, the ball dipped in the water at the distance of a hundred yards from the boat, sending the white spray high into the air. It rose, slightly glanced forward, seeming to utter a growling sound as it passed on, struck the boat at the edge of the water, and dashed it into a thousand pieces.
The youth found himself suddenly sprawling in the water, but he was entirely unhurt. Preserving his presence of mind, he rose after the first dip upon the surface, and said, half audibly, “That was a good shot, old bull.” He then applied his sinewy arms to the wave, and, though he was two miles from the shore, soon reached it in safety.
For two or three days, young Joinly was noticed by his mother to be taciturn, thoughtful, and frequently absent-minded. Several times she remarked that his brow was contracted, and that there was an expression of unwonted sternness upon his countenance. “What is the matter, Worthington?” said she, one evening, as he sat in the midst of the family group; “why is it that you always are making up faces, as if you were going to turn Bluebeard?”
“Do I make up faces, mother?” said the youth, a little startled. “Indeed, I was not aware of it. I suppose I am thinking of these rascally British.”
“And what have they done?” said the mother.
“Oh,” said Worthington, smiling, “they have spoiled my boat.” He then proceeded to relate the accident we have already described.
Though the danger had been passed for several days, the youth’s graphic description of the perilous adventure drove the color from the cheeks of the sisters, and made even the firmer heart of the mother beat with unwonted excitement.
“Oh, my son,” said she, when he had finished, “why will you be constantly involving yourself in such dangers?”
“Indeed, mother, it was no fault of mine. You seem to be blaming me for the misdemeanor of his Majesty’s ship of the line; but really the thing was so well done that I can hardly find it in my heart to be out of humor. I am really suspicious that they had a Yankee gunner aboard. A lubberly British tar could never have taken so straight an aim.”
“I do not like to hear you talk solightly of the matter,” said Mrs. Joinly. “Your own life has been in imminent hazard, and it appears to me that more serious thought is due to such a circumstance; and, beside, I cannot but reflect upon the fearful state of things around us. In wanton sport, these British officers fire upon a human being as a sportsman shoots at a woodcock or a partridge. How horrible is war, which thus perverts the manners and feelings of mankind; that converts murder into sport, sets aside the great commandment, ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ and makes bloodshed and slaughter a kind of chase, in which the amusement is proportioned to the number and value of the game.”
The young man made no reply. He sat musing for some time, and then, rising somewhat abruptly, he retired to his own room.
In the morning, Mrs. Joinly found upon her table a note from her son, saying that he was to be absent for a few days upon an expedition of importance. It entered into no explanations or details, and the mother was left to conjecture the cause of the young man’s absence. We must now follow him in his adventures.
Since young Joinly had read his father’s letter and his mother’s reply, he had resolved to make some effort for the release of the former. He had considered a great variety of schemes, but they were all dismissed, from one consideration or other. The accident which had occurred to him in the boat presented a new suggestion. The identical ship which had been the instrument of destroying the houses upon Duck Island was proceeding toward New York.
The desire of revenge for that calamity, which had been followed by so many disasters to his family, naturally arose in his heart. This was quickened by the wanton attack upon his little boat, and his mind was nearly resolved upon some attempt to seize upon the commander and destroy his vessel, thus taking an officer of equal rank with his father, and having the means of securing an exchange for his parent, at the same time that he would inflict a merited retribution upon the enemy.
This scheme, wild and extravagant as it might seem, did not appear impossible to the heated fancy of the youth, particularly as he felt a perfect willingness to sacrifice his life in the undertaking. It was at the moment that he was half resolved upon this mad scheme that the conversation with his mother had taken place. Her solemn words impressed him deeply. He retired to his room, and threw himself upon the bed. The sufferings of his family and the sufferings of the whole country were strongly impressed upon his mind.
The war at this period was carried on by the British armies in a manner which was calculated to rouse every feeling of indignation in the American people. The southern coasts of the United States had been ravaged by their troops in a style befitting pirates rather than soldiers, and more recently the borders of Connecticut had met with a similar fate. New Haven had been attacked, and the beautiful town of Fairfield had been laid in ashes. These circumstances were attended with the most aggravating atrocities. Private property was destroyed in mere wantonness. Individuals were shot down, or butchered by the soldiers, where no public object could be gained.
In the darkness of his chamber, these events crowded upon the youth’s imagination. They came attended with all the details current at the time, and heightened by the colors which indignation and rumor imparted to them. His own fancy, too, gave them a vividness beyond the reality; and, amid all these crowding images, his mother’s words came again and again upon his heart: “In wantonsport these British officers fire upon a human being as a sportsman shoots at a woodcock or a partridge.”
In this uneasy manner he spent several hours, but at last fell asleep. After a brief repose, he awoke, dressed himself, lighted a candle, and wrote the letter to his mother which we have already mentioned. After a few brief preparations, he went forth. His step was firm, and his whole bearing showed that his resolution was taken. The gray dawn was just visible in the east. As the youth was about departing, and had already advanced several rods from the house, he paused and looked back. The venerable mansion lay dark and still beneath the arches of the lofty elms that spread their branches above it. The gloom of the scene seemed but an emblem of the shadows that rested upon the hearts of those within, and those once so bright, so cheerful, so happy. A single tear gathered in the young man’s eyes; but he dashed it aside, and strode forward upon his path.
Our young adventurer had ascertained that the Tiger, the British frigate of which we have already spoken, lay at anchor in a little harbor of Long Island, toward the western extremity of the sound. He had conferred with several companions of his own age, and with some friends of his father, who were still older, and they had signified their willingness to aid him in any effort for his father’s release in which he was willing to lead them.
His present design was to muster these men, and set forth upon an attempt to destroy the vessel we have already mentioned, and, if possible, seize upon the commander. If this attempt, on farther examination, should not seem to be feasible, an effort to seize upon some other British officer, of which there were several stationed upon the western part of Long Island, was to be made.
Proceeding to the house of an active and energetic friend, young Joinly communicated his design, and the two, separately proceeding to the several houses of their proposed companions, rallied about thirty of them by the time the sun had risen. Most of them were young men, though several of them were of mature years. One of them was the owner of a small sloop; and, entering this, the whole party dropped down the river.
The celerity with which their preparations were made is explained by considering that in these times the knapsack and the firelock were ready at a moment’s call. The other necessary equipments and provisions were easily supplied. Nearly every man on board was familiar with the sea, and knew every rock, current, or shoal along the shore. They soon spread their sails, and, hugging the land, proceeded westward upon their chivalrous expedition.
In the space of three or four days they had reached the shores of Greenwich. They then crossed over by night to the opposite shore of Long Island, in the vicinity of the Tiger. Running up into a little shallow bay, sheltered by pine trees, they came to anchor. As soon as the morning approached, they despatched several of the men to reconnoitre. These returned toward evening of the following day, and brought the information that the Tiger was lying, at the distance of about four miles, at anchor in a small bay.
On the shore was a little village, and in the vicinity were the houses of several respectable farmers. One of these houses, apart from the rest, was occupied by the principal officers of the ship, who were indulging on shore in feasting and drinking. The resolution was soon adopted by the adventurers to take speedy advantageof this state of things to put their scheme in execution. In about a week their preparations were made, and they only waited for a dark and tempestuous night to make the attempt.
In about ten days the desired storm arrived. It was late in the autumn, and one of those chilly, north-easterly storms common to our climate had set in. The plot of our little band was a singular one. They had with them an ingenious mechanic, by the name of Bushnell, who had been long engaged in preparing machinery, something like that of a clock, by which he could ignite powder under water at any given time. His experiments had proved at least partially successful, and rumors of some scheme for blowing up the British ships at New York, by this machinery, had got into circulation. The British were excessively alarmed, and swept the water around their vessels, both night and day, to intercept any infernal engine that might be stealing upon them.
Bushnell’s plan, on the present occasion, was to approach the vessel in the darkness of the night, and, under cover of the storm, to attach a small skiff, laden with several barrels of gunpowder, to the side of the vessel—to connect the machinery with this, and leave it to explode. The rest of the men were to be upon the shore, and, in the confusion which they expected to follow, to make sure of the commander of the vessel. The arrangements were duly made early in the evening, and about nine o’clock Bushnell and two companions set off for the ship.
The night was excessively dark, and the wind, blowing a gale, swept with a deafening roar through the rigging. Everything favored the enterprise. Unseen and unheard, the conspirators stole over the short chopping waves of the bay, and, sheltered beneath the projecting stern of the massy hulk, took their measures with deliberation.
After a brief space, they departed unnoticed and unsuspected, leaving the little skiff, with its burden of death and destruction, firmly attached beneath the frigate.
They soon reached the shore, and took the stations assigned them with their companions. The machinery was so adjusted, that it would strike in the space of half an hour, and communicate the fatal spark to the powder.
[To be continued.]