Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Spy by James Fenimore Cooper (top ebook reader TXT) 📖
- Author: James Fenimore Cooper
Book online «The Spy by James Fenimore Cooper (top ebook reader TXT) 📖». Author James Fenimore Cooper
The sergeant charged with conducting Henry Wharton to a place where he might procure surgical aid, set about performing his duty with alacrity, in order to return as soon as possible to the scene of strife. They had not reached the middle of the plain, before the captain noticed a man whose appearance and occupation forcibly arrested his attention. His head was bald and bare, but a well-powdered wig was to be seen, half-concealed, in the pocket of his breeches. His coat was off, and his arms were naked to the elbow; blood had disfigured much of his dress, and his hands, and even face, bore this mark of his profession; in his mouth was a cigar; in his right hand some instruments of strange formation, and in his left the remnants of an apple, with which he occasionally relieved the duty of the before-mentioned cigar. He was standing, lost in the contemplation of a Hessian, who lay breathless before him. At a little distance were three or four of the guides, leaning on their muskets, and straining their eyes in the direction of the combatants, and at his elbow stood a man who, from the implements in his hand, seemed an assistant.
“There, sir, is the doctor,” said the attendant of Henry very coolly. “He will patch up your arm in the twinkling of an eye”; and beckoning to the guides to approach, he whispered and pointed to his prisoner, and then galloped furiously towards his comrades.
Wharton advanced to the side of this strange figure, and observing himself to be unnoticed, was about to request his assistance, when the other broke silence in a soliloquy:—
“Now, I know this man to have been killed by Captain Lawton, as well as if I had seen him strike the blow. How often have I strove to teach him the manner in which he can disable his adversary, without destroying life! It is cruel thus unnecessarily to cut off the human race, and furthermore, such blows as these render professional assistance unnecessary; it is in a measure treating the lights of science with disrespect.”
“If, sir, your leisure will admit,” said Henry Wharton, “I must beg your attention to a slight hurt.”
“Ah!” cried the other, starting, and examining him from head to foot, “you are from the field below. Is there much business there, sir?”
“Indeed,” answered Henry, accepting the offer of the surgeon to assist in removing his coat, “’tis a stirring time.”
“Stirring!” repeated the surgeon, busily employed with his dressings; “you give me great pleasure, sir; for so long as they can stir there must be life; and while there is life, you know, there is hope; but here my art is of no use. I did put in the brains of one patient, but I rather think the man must have been dead before I saw him. It is a curious case, sir; I will take you to see it—only across the fence there, where you may perceive so many bodies together. Ah! the ball has glanced around the bone without shattering it; you are fortunate in falling into the hands of an old practitioner, or you might have lost this limb.”
“Indeed!” said Henry, with a slight uneasiness. “I did not apprehend the injury to be so serious.”
“Oh, the hurt is not bad, but you have such a pretty arm for an operation; the pleasure of the thing might have tempted a novice.”
“The devil!” cried the captain. “Can there be any pleasure in mutilating a fellow creature?”
“Sir,” said the surgeon, with gravity, “a scientific amputation is a very pretty operation, and doubtless might tempt a younger man, in the hurry of business, to overlook all the particulars of the case.”
Further conversation was interrupted by the appearance of the dragoons, slowly marching towards their former halting place, and new applications from the slightly wounded soldiers, who now came riding in, making hasty demands on the skill of the doctor.
The guides took charge of Wharton, and, with a heavy heart, the young man retraced his steps to his father’s cottage.
The English had lost in the several charges about one third of their foot, but the remainder were rallied in the wood; and Dunwoodie, perceiving them to be too strongly posted to assail, had left a strong party with Captain Lawton, with orders to watch their motions, and to seize every opportunity to harass them before they reëmbarked.
Intelligence had reached the major of another party being out, by the way of the Hudson, and his duty required that he should hold himself in readiness to defeat the intentions of these also. Captain Lawton received his orders with strong injunctions to make no assault on the foe, unless a favorable chance should offer.
The injury received by this officer was in the head, being stunned by a glancing bullet; and parting with a laughing declaration from the major, that if he again forgot himself, they should all think him more materially hurt, each took his own course.
The British were a light party without baggage, that had been sent out to destroy certain stores, understood to be collecting for the use of the American army. They now retired through the woods to the heights, and, keeping the route along their summits, in places unassailable by cavalry, commenced a retreat to their boats.
With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant, died;
But things like these, you know, must be
At every famous victory.
—SOUTHEY.
The last sounds of the combat died on the ears of the anxious listeners in the cottage, and were succeeded by the stillness of suspense. Frances had continued by herself, striving to exclude the uproar, and vainly endeavoring to summon resolution to meet the dreaded result. The ground where the charge on the foot had taken place was but a short mile from the Locusts, and, in the intervals of the musketry, the cries of the soldiers had even reached the ears of its inhabitants. After witnessing the escape of his son, Mr. Wharton had joined his sister and eldest daughter in their retreat, and the three continued fearfully waiting for news from the field. Unable longer to remain under the painful uncertainty of her situation, Frances soon added herself to the uneasy group, and Caesar was directed to examine into the state of things without, and report on whose banners victory had alighted. The father now briefly related to his astonished children the circumstance and manner of their brother’s escape. They were yet in the freshness of their surprise, when the door opened, and Captain Wharton, attended by a couple of the guides, and followed by the black, stood before them.
“Henry—my son, my son,” cried the agitated parent, stretching out his arms, yet unable to rise from his seat; “what is it I see; are you again a captive, and in danger of your life?”
“The better fortune of these rebels has prevailed,” said the youth, endeavoring to force a cheerful smile, and taking a hand of each of his distressed sisters. “I strove nobly for my liberty; but the perverse spirit of rebellion has even lighted on their horses. The steed I mounted carried me, greatly against my will, I acknowledge, into the very center of Dunwoodie’s men.”
“And you were again captured,” continued the father, casting a fearful glance on the armed attendants who had entered the room.
“That, sir, you may safely say; this Mr. Lawton, who sees so far, had me in custody again immediately.”
“Why you no hold ’em in, Massa Henry?” cried Caesar, pettishly.
“That,” said Wharton, smiling, “was a thing easier said than done, Mr. Caesar, especially as these gentlemen” (glancing his eyes at the guides) “had seen proper to deprive me of the use of my better arm.”
“Wounded!” exclaimed both sisters in a breath.
“A mere scratch, but disabling me at a most critical moment,” continued the brother, kindly, and stretching out the injured limb to manifest the truth of his declaration. Caesar threw a look of bitter animosity on the irregular warriors who were thought to have had an agency in the deed, and left the room. A few more words sufficed to explain all that Captain Wharton knew relative to the fortune of the day. The result he thought yet doubtful, for when he left the ground, the Virginians were retiring from the field of battle.
“They had treed the squirrel,” said one of the sentinels abruptly, “and didn’t quit the ground without leaving a good hound for the chase when he comes down.”
“Aye,” added his comrade dryly, “I’m thinking Captain Lawton will count the noses of what are left before they see their whaleboats.”
Frances had stood supporting herself, by the back of a chair, during this dialogue, catching, in breathless anxiety, every syllable as it was uttered; her color changed rapidly; her limbs shook under her; until, with desperate resolution, she inquired,—
“Is any officer hurt on—the—on either side?”
“Yes,” answered the man, cavalierly, “these Southern youths are so full of mettle, that it’s seldom we fight but one or two gets knocked over; one of the wounded, who came up before the troops, told me that Captain Singleton was killed, and Major Dunwoodie—”
Frances heard no more, but fell lifeless in the chair behind her. The attention of her friends soon revived her when the captain, turning to the man, said fearfully,—
“Surely Major Dunwoodie is unhurt?”
“Never fear him,” added the guide, disregarding the agitation of the family. “They say a man who is born to be hanged will never be drowned; if a bullet could kill the major, he would have been dead long ago. I was going to say, that the major is in a sad taking because of the captain’s being killed; but had I known how much store the lady set by him, I wouldn’t have been so plain-spoken.”
Frances now rose quickly from her seat, with cheeks glowing with confusion, and, leaning on her aunt, was about to retire, when Dunwoodie himself appeared. The first emotion of the agitated girl was unalloyed happiness; in the next instant she shrank back appalled from the unusual expression that reigned in his countenance. The sternness of battle yet sat on his brow; his eye was fixed and severe. The smile of affection that used to lighten his dark features on meeting his mistress, was supplanted by the lowering look of care; his whole soul seemed to be absorbed in one engrossing emotion, and he proceeded at once to his object.
“Mr. Wharton,” he earnestly began, “in times like these, we need not stand on idle ceremony: one of my officers, I am afraid, is hurt mortally; and, presuming on your hospitality, I have brought him to your door.”
“I am happy, sir, that you have done so,” said Mr. Wharton, at once perceiving the importance of conciliating the American troops. “The necessitous are always welcome, and doubly so, in being the friend of Major Dunwoodie.”
“Sir, I thank you for myself, and in behalf of him who is unable to render you his thanks,” returned the other, hastily. “If you please, we will have him conducted where the surgeon may see and report upon his case without delay.” To this there could be no objection; and Frances felt a chill at her heart, as her lover withdrew, without casting a solitary look on herself.
There is a devotedness in female love that admits of no rivalry. All the tenderness of the heart, all the powers of the imagination, are enlisted in behalf of the tyrant passion; and where all is given, much is looked for in return. Frances had spent hours of anguish, of torture, on account of Dunwoodie, and he now met her without a smile, and left her without a greeting. The ardor of her feelings was unabated, but the elasticity of her hopes was weakened. As the supporters of the nearly lifeless body of Dunwoodie’s friend passed her, in their way to the apartment prepared for his reception, she caught a view of this seeming rival.
His pale and ghastly countenance, sunken eye, and difficult breathing, gave her a glimpse of death in its most fearful form. Dunwoodie was by his side and held his hand, giving frequent and stern injunctions to the men to proceed with care, and, in short, manifesting all the solicitude that the most tender friendship could, on such an occasion, inspire. Frances moved lightly before them, and, with an averted face, she held open the door for their passage to the bed; it was only as the major
Comments (0)