A Revolutionary Story.CHAPTERVI.[Continued frompage 138.]
[Continued frompage 138.]
Weleft our party of adventurers at a moment of deep interest. Young Joinly and the greater portion of his companions were posted near the house in which the captain of the Tiger, with some of his officers, was then stationed. Bushnell and his associate had just returned from the ship, to which they had attached their little magazine of powder, with the mechanism intended to explode it in half an hour.
Guided by one of their party, who had waited for them, they now joined the little band we have just mentioned. The position of the party commanded a view of the ship, and, amid the intense darkness, her position was known by the light at her bow. When Bushnell arrived, and communicated to Joinly and his friends the success of the enterprise, thus far, and assured them that the vessel would be torn in pieces in the space of a few minutes, it may be well imagined that their anxiety was intense.
Keeping their eyes fixed in the direction of the ship, they gazed earnestly, and, more than once, the false and flickering light of the strained vision was taken to be the scintillations of the kindling explosion. In this state of suspense, seconds were lengthened to minutes, and, ere the half hour had elapsed, the whole party felt that the time had gone by, and began to fear that the mechanism had failed and the scheme miscarried. Young Joinly, in particular, from the impetuosity of his temper and the excited state of his feelings, experienced an impatience he could scarcely repress.
Nothing is so hard to endure, particularly to an ardent mind, as inaction in a protracted state of doubt and fear.
“It is all over,” said Joinly; “the engine has failed; let us attack the house!”
“Hush, hush!” said Bushnell, whose nerves were more steady; “the time has not arrived; the engine will yet do its work: you will hear from it within five minutes.”
A perfect silence among the party now ensued, and nothing was heard, save the raging of the tempest. A few minutes passed, and a small flash was seen near the water’s edge and beneath the stern of the vessel. “There you have it,” said Bushnell; and, a moment after, a terrific light streamed up from the water, seeming to envelope the mighty hulk of the vessel, while a ruddy reflection tinged every rope and spar, as well as the surface of the sea and the little huts of the adjacent village. A heavy sound followed, and a rushing impulse of the air.Darkness again settled upon the scene, and the hoarse moan of the tempest seemed once more to drown every other sound.
The eyes of the adventurers were now turned upon the house where the captain resided. But a few moments passed, when there was a bustle within, and it was evident that the phenomenon had been observed. By this time, the conspirators had surrounded the house, and Joinly was on the point of entering the door, when it was opened by the captain himself, and, in the light, he saw Joinly and his little band standing with their muskets ready for action. “I command you to surrender!” said Joinly, stepping forward in the full blaze of the lamp. “Your vessel is blown to atoms, and, if you make the slightest resistance, both you and all in this house shall be instantly shot down!”
“Who are you? what are you?” said the captain, in a state of profound astonishment.
“It is enough that we are Americans!” said the youth. “There is no time for parley. Do you surrender?”
“Not so easily!” said the officer, who was now joined by two or three other persons, slamming the door in the face of the young commander.
“Now for it!” said Joinly; and, with a thundering crash, several of the men rushed against the door, which gave way, and Joinly was pushed into the room. Two or three of his men entered immediately at his heels. The captain of the Tiger fired his pistol, and the ball passed between the left arm and the breast of young Joinly.
A scuffle immediately followed, and several random shots were exchanged. In a very short space, the Americans were victorious, having secured the five British officers. Young Joinly had thrown the captain upon the floor, where he held him fast till the rest were mastered. Finding it idle to resist, the British officers submitted to their fate, and were permitted to rise. The captain was then commanded to prepare immediately to depart, and the rest were tied, hand and foot, and left separate from each other in the different rooms of the house.
Having secured the chief object of their expedition, Joinly and his party made a hasty retreat, knowing that the alarm would soon be communicated to the troops stationed in the vicinity. Taking a course which led around the head of the bay, they made their way to the sheltered spot where their little sloop was anchored. The gale was still raging; but, seeming not to heed it, they released her from her moorings and put her before the wind.
Keeping in to the land, they were somewhat sheltered from the gale; but still the little vessel seemed to dance like a feather upon the wave. The morning had now dawned, but the thick haze rendered it impossible to see at any great distance. As they were proceeding in their course, they saw a large vessel, scudding, like themselves, before the wind. It was not long before they also discovered that it was the Tiger, which they had supposed blown to atoms, and apparently in pursuit of them.
As soon as this idea entered the mind of young Joinly, he stretched a little more out from the land and hoisted an additional sail. “We will give him a chase,” said he, “and we will see which shall have the best of it. Hurl-gate is five miles ahead, and we will try which shall get through it first.”
The men on board the boat had now become so accustomed to the authority of young Joinly, that they offered no opposition to this wild and perilous suggestion; but, taking their several stations, each man well performed his part, and the sloop, shivering in every plank and seeming to partake of the excitement,skimmed like a sea-gull over the water. The two vessels proceeded steadily for some time, but it was at last obvious that the Tiger was gaining upon the sloop.
The captain, who had watched the whole of the proceeding with intense interest, now spoke and said to Joinly, “Young man, you had better give it up; you’ll soon be riddled with her shot.”
“Look yonder,” said Joinly, in reply, pointing forward; “do you see the water boiling in yonder whirlpool like a pot?”
“I do, I do!” said the captain, his countenance assuming a look of the utmost anxiety.
“That is Hurl-gate!” said the youth. “Weshall pass it in safety; but, if the Tiger proceed five hundred fathoms more, her escape is impossible, and her doom certain.”
A general silence now prevailed, during which the sloop passed safely through the tumbling eddies of the whirlpool. The frigate continued on her track, and in a few moments she struck upon the rocks. This circumstance was immediately noticed on board the sloop, and a general shout of triumph rang through the air.
We must leave the frigate to her fate, only remarking that, although she escaped, with little damage, from the explosion of the gunpowder, yet it was but to find her doom in Hurl-gate. There was only sufficient time for the men on board to escape, when she went to pieces.
General Washington was now stationed upon the west bank of the Hudson river, about twenty miles from New York. It was young Joinly’s scheme to take his captive directly to the camp, and solicit, in person, an exchange of the British officer for his father. The sloop was, therefore, turned up into a little creek, where Joinly, with one of his companions and the prisoner, were landed. These proceeded on their journey, while the rest of the adventurers found their way safely back to Saybrook in their little vessel.
In the space of two or three days, Joinly reached the American camp, and was soon conducted to the head quarters of the commander-in-chief. That officer was alone, and the young man was ushered into his presence. He told his story with simplicity, and closed with a request that steps might be taken for the release of his father.
“This is a strange feat you have performed,” said Washington, “and you must have had a strong motive for an adventure so perilous.” The tears started to the young man’s eyes as he replied,
“My father, sir, has been in captivity for almost three years. His health is wasted with toil, anxiety and care; his fortune is scattered; his lands are impoverished; his home is desolate. Are not these motives which should make a son forget his own safety and comfort, and think only of his father’s release?”
“I can well believe that they are,” said the general, in a softened tone; “I can well believe that they are. I have not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with your father, but I know that he is a man of exalted worth. He has suffered deeply for his country; but, alas! this is what all are called upon to endure. He, however, has some compensation, in satisfying the promptings of a patriotic breast and fulfilling the suggestions of a kind and generous heart.
“My young friend, your father is worthy of the effort you have made, and, if I can reconcile it with my sense of duty to the country, your object shall be accomplished. There is one difficulty, however, which you have overlooked. Your father is a colonel, and the officer you have captured is but a captain. SirGuy Carleton will hardly make an exchange so unequal as to give up the former for the latter. However, if you will call upon me to-morrow, you shall know the result.”
Young Joinly now went away; but, on the morrow, returned to the office of the general at the time appointed. He found him alone, as before. Washington received him with that serene dignity, that mixture of command and kindness, which characterized him. After a brief explanation, he handed the youth a sealed packet, addressed to General Carleton. “My young friend,” said he, “you will take this to Sir Guy, at New York. It contains a proposal for an exchange of Colonel G——, a British officer, who has been recently captured, for your father. I regret that a specific exchange of the officer you have yourself taken, could not be proposed. It would not be consonant to the rules of war, nor would it be accepted by the British general. Here is a letter to your father, expressing my high sense of his generous services and his patriotic sacrifices in behalf of his country. And, for yourself, remember that, if I can ever do you a personal service, it will be cheerfully rendered. Farewell.”
With a mingled feeling of affection and awe toward this remarkable man, young Joinly departed. Being duly provided with a pass, he easily made his way to New York, and presented his communication to Sir Guy Carleton. The proposed exchange was readily accepted, and the youth was permitted to proceed to his father’s quarters and communicate the intelligence of his release.
With a beating heart, he entered a boat, and proceeded to the barracks at Brooklyn, upon Long Island, then occupied by American prisoners of war. On reaching the gate, he was permitted, by the sentinel, to enter, and one of the prisoners offered to conduct him to his father’s room. He led him through a long passage, and young Joinly noticed, as he passed, a considerable number of the prisoners. It is impossible to describe the wasted and haggard aspect of these miserable wretches. They were ragged, and filthy, and emaciated. They not only seemed to be deprived of the comforts of life, but degraded by a feeling of utter desolation and abandonment.
On reaching his father’s apartments, Joinly was informed that he had gone to visit some patients, at one of the prison-ships, which was moored in the river near at hand. As he passed by the apartments of the prisoners, he noticed a large room, in which there were several persons lying upon beds of straw. These were sick, and several of them were approaching their end. Yet their companions around them seemed to take little heed of their sufferings or their condition. Some were walking about, some were talking, and others were disputing. Rough words and strong oaths were frequently uttered.
In a corner of this dismal room, there was one group that riveted the attention of the youth. Two persons were sitting upon the floor, for there were no chairs nor seats in the room. Between them lay the cold, lifeless form of one of their companions. Yet these persons, made familiar with death, were shuffling a pack of greasy cards over the dead body, which they used as their table. Shocked at the scene, and suffocated with the offensive atmosphere, our youthful friend hurried away from the apartments, and went in pursuit of his father.
As he passed along, his mind was busy in reflecting upon the scenes he had witnessed. “I once thought,” said he, mentally, “that I should like to be a soldier, but I am getting to look upon his vocation with horror. It seems that war not only takes away the lives of men in battle, but degrades and brutifies themin the prison-house. And my poor father, too! It is in such scenes as these, the mere sight of which makes my head giddy and my heart sick, that my father has toiled and suffered for the last three years.” With reflections like these; the youth proceeded, in a boat, to the prison-ship.
This was the hulk of a large ship of war, which, being unfit for service, was dismantled, anchored in the East river, and converted into a prison. He mounted the side of the enormous vessel, and stood upon the deck. Standing, sitting, or lying around, were a large number of prisoners, bearing even deeper marks of misery than those we have before described. On making inquiries for his father, the young man was told that he was below.
He descended, accordingly, into the bowels of the ship, though the revolting atmosphere nearly stifled him. He was conducted to a remote part of the vessel, and pointed to a person sitting by the side of a sick man, upon a couch of straw. Although the back of the individual was toward him, and the room dark, he immediately recognised the well-known form of his father. The latter, however, was bent over the sick man, and seemed intently occupied in conversing with him.
Partly restrained from his emotions at once more seeing his father, and in such circumstances, and partly from an unwillingness to break in upon such a scene, young Joinly paused. His father, unconscious of the presence of his son, continued to address the sick man. “My poor friend,” said he, in tones of the utmost kindness, “set your heart at rest upon that point. I induced you to join the fatal expedition which resulted in your captivity and mine. I assure you, if I am ever delivered from this confinement, and am restored to my home, your wife and children shall never want for the comforts of life.
“Let not fears for them disturb these last moments of existence. You will, at least, leave the inheritance of a good name to your children,—the reputation of one who died in the service of his country. In the possession of such an inheritance, they can never suffer from poverty or neglect. This fearful war must soon end, and it will result in the independence of our country. Let it lighten our hearts, and cheer even this prison-house, and shed consolation upon our dying moments, that we have been permitted to participate in that suffering which has made a nation free.”
“My dear colonel,” said the poor man, in a faint voice, “I thank you a thousand times. I should now die in peace, were it not for one painful thought.”
“And what is that?” said Colonel Joinly.
“It is, that you will yourself be sacrificed in these horrid dungeons. Your constitution is failing, and you cannot much longer sustain this wear and tear of body and mind.”
“Do not let these thoughts trouble you, my friend,” replied the colonel. “Having made your peace, as I trust, with God, let these last moments be peaceful also; and fear not for me. I know no other, and I seek no other path than that of duty. There is a sun always shining over that path, through whatever trials it may lead. If it is Heaven’s will that I be sacrificed, what better can I do than fulfil Heaven’s decree?”
“But, colonel,” said the sick man, “it is rumored, in the ship, that an exchange is about to be offered to you. Many of the prisoners are in despair lest you should leave them, for you are their only comfort. I know your character, and fear that your sense of duty may lead you to refuse to accept an exchange. Let me pray you not thus to lay down your life.”
“Nay, nay,” said the colonel, “fearnothing on that score. I am aware that my health is failing, and I know that I could not much longer endure the kind of life I have led. If an exchange is made, it is not for me to refuse. I assure you, however, I would not leave these poor prisoners to their fate if the hope was not presented that, in being released, I might make representations to the British officers, and an appeal to the American people, which should effect something in their behalf. I have great hopes of obtaining something from the noble heart of Sir Guy Carleton, who has succeeded the weak and heartless Sir Henry Clinton.”
“Thank you, thank you,” said the sick man, earnestly. “I am now relieved from every anxiety. Farewell, colonel; you must now go to the other prisoners. I trust we shall meet in a happier world than this.”
Colonel Joinly pressed the poor man’s emaciated hand beneath both his own, while the tears fell down his cheeks. The sick man folded his arms upon his breast, and closed his eyes. The pallid and wasted features showed the havoc of suffering and disease upon a countenance still youthful; but, amid the ghastly aspect of death, there was a smile, which seemed to show that the soul within was at peace. Colonel Joinly remained in his chair some moments, his face buried in his hand. With a strong effort, he then arose, and turned to depart. He now met his son, who had stood aside during the scene we have described.
We shall not dwell upon the first interview of the father and son. The story of the latter was soon told, and Colonel Joinly was apprized at once of his own liberation and the gallant achievement by which it had been accomplished. Nearly overpowered with his feelings, he was desirous of leaving the ship and going to his own room. He, therefore, mounted to the deck, for the purpose of departing; but a scene awaited him here which he had not anticipated.
The rumor of his exchange had reached the prisoners, and a large number of them had now assembled to express their thanks and give vent to their sorrow. They formed a line on each side, from the companion-way to the ladder, and, as he passed along, they reached out their hands in token of farewell. Many of them were in tears, and several were earnest in their supplications to the colonel to do something for their families, or, perhaps, make an effort for their own deliverance from their dungeon.
This painful and trying scene was at last over, and the father and son soon reached the apartment of the former. A short time was spent in mutual inquiries and explanations, and then preparations were made for their departure. Colonel Joinly’s first steps, however, were in behalf of the suffering soldiers for whom he had labored so long. He visited several of the British officers in New York, and especially Sir Guy Carleton. A promise was given—and we are happy to say that it was fulfilled—that the prisoners, thenceforward, should receive the care and attention due to Christian men.
The father and son now set out for Saybrook, where they arrived in due season. The colonel was greatly changed by the suffering he had endured. His tall and robust form was emaciated and bent over; his hair had grown thin and white, and his countenance had become at once sallow and deeply furrowed with traces never to be effaced.
It was obvious to all that his constitution was broken, and that he had brought back to his home but the wreck of that manly form and dauntless spirit which characterized him in earlier days. The joy of his wife and family, at his return, was chastened by this change in his appearance; but they were still overflowingwith gratitude, and content once more settled upon the group around the fireside.
Colonel Joinly now returned to his medical practice, devoting a large share of his attention to the public interests, and especially to the means of improving the condition of the American prisoners at New York. His shattered fortunes were, however, never repaired. The remainder of his life was spent in comparative poverty and the imperfect health which attends a broken constitution. Still, he never repined, but found compensation and consolation in the consciousness of having discharged his duty, and in the cheering reflection that his sacrifices had been made in behalf of that arduous, yet successful struggle which resulted in the independence of his country.