8 A Journey in the World

I began the next morning my great journey in the world. It was scarcely daylight, the stagecoach taking an early start in order to reach Baltimore the same day, but early as it was Mercer, Courtenay, Charlton, and two or three other good friends of mine came to see me off. They wished me good luck, said enviously that they would like to be going with me, shook hands, and then I climbed upon the front seat. The driver, who sat beside me, blew his horn, cracked his whip, and with a lurch and a mighty rattle we were off.

At that day a journey to New York and Boston was not often taken by a Kentuckian, and I was overflowing with enthusiasm and anticipations, while my parting with Marian had left enough of tender recollection to make me look forward, too, to my return.

The sun was just rising over the eastern hills, flushing the horizon a rosy red, which faded into pink toward the zenith. The surface of the river gleamed with spots of rose or silver, and golden rays shot from the walls of the Capitol. The day was crisp and cold, but I was well wrapped in my greatcoat, and the air was so fresh to the lungs that I could have leaped and shouted with the mere joy of living.

The big coach rattled over the stones of the new turnpike, and we were soon beyond Washington and into the forest. After leaving the city, habitation seemed almost to cease; once or twice we saw distant smoke rising over the treetops, and we thought it must mark a farm house, but on either side of us was the dense and untouched forest. Sometimes the trees were so thick and their branches projected so far over the road that in summer, when in full foliage, they must have formed a perfect canopy for travellers. Under the trees I could see the tender young grass appearing, and the increasing buds marked the advance of the southern spring, perhaps already in full bloom far down on the Gulf and now creeping steadily northward.

I turned my head to take a last look at Washington, but it was already shut out by the forest which circled around it, as an island is surrounded by the sea.

The night was at hand when we drove into Baltimore. I had been there before on brief trips from Washington, but it was always a delight to me, coming from our lazy capital of not more than five thousand inhabitants into this great busy city of forty thousand. The lamps were burning in the streets as we drove through them, throwing patches of light upon the brick houses. The tall spires of the churches cut the dusky sky.

In the streets were sailors from the packets which were carrying the name of Baltimore throughout the world, and although it was full nine o’clock, not only the sailors but many others were about, making the place as lively as some towns in the daytime.

I was to stay in Baltimore a day, to cash Mr. Gallatin’s drafts on the branch bank of the United States, and also some private drafts of my own on the Bank of Maryland, and went out early the next morning to attend to the finances of Philip Ten Broeck, Esq. Finding that the bank doors were not yet opened, I strolled about the city, admiring its fine buildings and the industry of its inhabitants.

Both the houses and the people interested me, and I found plenty of strangers who were polite enough to point out to me the places of interest. I saw the principal markets—Hanover, Marsh, and Fell’s Point—and what I admired about them most were the great heaps of fish of a hundred varieties, the oysters and the crabs and the lobsters and the wild ducks from the Chesapeake.

A little later I cashed my drafts and then strayed back to the Marsh Market, where I was watching a great pile of fish, whose scales glistened in the sun, mingled white and silver, when some one put his hand lightly upon my arm and said:

“And you, too, are on your travels, kinsman?”

I looked around, and there was Major Northcote, calm, dignified, and, as usual, dressed with European care.

“Yes, I travel, but from choice,” I could not refrain from saying.

“I am fairly hit,” he said, showing no anger, “but I am in the enemy’s country; I must expect it.”

He began to tell me about the great European cities, and, unwholesome as I believed such company to be for me, I listened a while as we walked on together. It seemed strange that I should find his society agreeable after our misadventures, and reflecting upon it I decided that I ought to leave him. I bade him good day as politely as I could, and he replied in like manner, saying we might become fellow-travellers, and if chance so willed it he would be pleased.

I returned to my tavern, and the next morning started for Philadelphia, having no intention to linger in Baltimore, whose state of mind could not be mistaken by our Government, owing to its nearness to Washington. When I climbed upon the stagecoach my kinsman, Major Northcote, bade me a cheery good morning from his seat just behind me, and, as was fit, I replied in like manner.

The other passengers were looking at the Tory in a rather curious and by no means friendly manner, their hostility being invited by the British cut of his clothes and beard, matters about which he was always very particular. But he received their glances with supreme indifference, and I felt sure that he preferred their disapproval. I thought it best to avoid further conversation with him at present, and not indicate to the other passengers that we were kinsmen and old acquaintances. This policy seemed to be his own also, and I settled myself for the journey.

We drove along very merrily at the good rate of three miles an hour, and were blessed with another beautiful day, the signs of spring increasing. I could almost see the buds opening. The green hues of field and forest deepened as the wind from the south blew upon them. The brooks shimmered among the trees, and the little ponds in the fields were made of molten silver.

We were in the fields now, and the green tint of coming spring rose above the brown of departing winter. The road cut through the meadows like a long white sword blade and entered the woods. The flush of spring, not the spring that was here, but the spring that was coming, touched everything. The sun had not been up long, and its rays still burned in red and gold on the eastern hills. Beads of dew twinkled on the grass. Fields and foliage were fresh from their night bath. In a pasture beside the road two colts leaped and romped with physical joy. But I was not alone in feeling the influence of a beautiful sunny morning. Its effect was visible on all, even Major Northcote. Some of the men whistled, one woman hummed a song in a very low voice, and the Tory looked about with the air of a man who could enjoy a crisp day and peaceful rural scenery.

“It’s a fine day, Philip,” he said presently to me.

“Yes, Major Northcote,” I said, “as fine as you could find even in your perfect England.”

I said it with a little malice, for his slurs upon us still rankled.

“We will not argue that point,” he said lightly.

The others looked at him with more interest and attention, and with increasing hostility. Englishmen were not popular with us, and such Major Northcote considered and styled himself, though a born American.

“He called you Major Northcote, and spoke of you as an Englishman; are you a major in the British army?” asked one Luttrell, a Pennsylvania stock trader, a rough-looking man, but of open and honest face.

“In the Canadian militia, my friend, which is the same thing,” returned Major Northcote politely.

“Then this is not the country for you,” said Luttrell. “We don’t love Englishmen, and still less the renegades in Canada who call themselves Englishmen.”

“The men in Canada whom you call renegades,” said Major Northcote smoothly, “are not renegades. They are exiles; exiles because they were true to what they think was right.”

It may have been an unwise speech to make, time and place considered, but Major Northcote was a man of unsurpassed courage. At that moment the driver pulled up at a blacksmith’s shop beside the road, and announced that he would have the horses’ shoes examined there, suggesting that we improve the opportunity by getting out and stretching our legs. We were all glad to do so. Major Northcote climbed down from his seat with the rest of us, and strolled back and forth by the roadside.

The blacksmith examined carefully the feet of every horse. He was far in years, and his was a little shanty almost hid by the encroaching woods. He seemed to me to be too old and feeble for such work.

“Why don’t you have somebody to help you?” I asked, as he put down one horse’s foot and prepared to pick up another.

“I haven’t the money to pay for it,” he said.

“Haven’t you any sons to help you?”

“No; I have one son, but he is not a blacksmith.”

“What is he?”

“A sailor.”

“Perhaps that’s a better trade than blacksmithing.”

“I guess not,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “at least not the way he’s practising it.”

“Why?”

“He’s on a British man-of-war somewhere off the north coast of Europe, blockading the French; impressed out of the schooner Sally Jones in the Chesapeake years ago and forced to fight for the English. I guess he’ll never come back again, an’ there’s plenty more like him. An’ our Government hasn’t done a thing. I say, damn a government that doesn’t protect its own citizens!”

He bent down his old face, and went on stolidly with his horseshoeing. Several of the passengers had heard him. Among them was Luttrell.

“Here, you infernal renegade,” he called out to Major Northcote, “do you hear what this man says about his son? It’s all you and your dirty English are good for, man stealing.”

Major Northcote turned flaming eyes upon the man when he heard the epithet applied to him, and his lips moved as if he would say something, but he checked the reply and continued his measured tread back and forth.

I did not feel called upon to interfere.

“Here you, you Tory!” said Luttrell, who seemed suddenly to have conceived of himself as some sort of retributive justice. “Come here, and answer to this man for his son! The one for the other, I say.”

“I know nothing about the man’s son,” said Major Northcote. “I never heard of him before in my life, but if he’s serving in the British navy, I’ve no doubt it’s a good thing for him.” He seemed to think that the time had come for plain words, though I believed that he did not estimate rightly the man who was talking to him.

“Do you think so?” said Luttrell; “then I say again the one for the other. Since this man’s son has been kidnapped to serve in the British navy, why not put Major Northcote, of the British army, or the Canadian militia, which is the same thing, at work in the blacksmith shop in his place. Come now, Major Northcote, you have a strong arm, pull the bellows for a while. What do you say to the swap, lads?”

The other men in the party welcomed the suggestion as a happy thought. Perhaps some of them had a relative or a friend who had been kidnapped by a British war ship. It was very likely.

“Try the forge, Major,” said one; “you’ll like it.”

A deep flush spread over Major Northcote’s face. The threat of personal indignity reached the quick, but he, said nothing, merely continuing his military stride up and down. I did not know what to do, and not knowing waited.

“Since you won’t hear, we’ll have to make you hear,” said Luttrell, striding up to him and laying his hand upon his arm.

The major clinched his fist and struck Luttrell in the face with such force that he fell to the earth. Then he faced the crowd, red with anger, and defiant.

“You dogs!” he said. There was nothing assumed about him now. The real man was showing.

Then a new and alarming cry was raised.

“Remember the Chesapeake!” shouted some one. “Don’t forget her men who were murdered by the British! A life for theirs!”

The others took it up, and the forge and the black-smithing were forgotten. All had the fate of the Chesapeake’s men in their minds, and his striking the first blow roused the spirit of revenge. “Hang him!” they shouted; “he’s a British spy anyway, and it will be one for our own men who have been killed!”

Luttrell was up again, bleeding in the face, and he seized Major Northcote by the shoulder. Some one ran to the blacksmith’s for a rope. The major struck at Luttrell again, but his arm was warded off, and he received in return a heavy blow in the face which drew blood. The red drops fell on his mustache, and spattered thence on his white stock. But only that glimpse of his face was permitted to me, for the next moment the crowd was upon him, and a wild struggle followed.

In the beginning of the affair I had not known how to interfere, and the cry to hang Major Northcote had come so suddenly, and had been followed by action so quickly, that time to do anything had been lacking hitherto. Now I rushed forward, and seizing Luttrell, threw him back with such violence that he turned head over heels. I served another in like manner, and pushed a third back with my hand. Then I was able to get at the major, and I jerked him out of their hands.

“Are you gone crazy, men?” I shouted. “Do you know what a crime you are trying to commit?”

“They’ve killed our people. Why shouldn’t we put one of theirs out of the way?” said one of them in a voice that sullen and still threatening.

It is curious how the blood-lust rises, and what a strong hold it sometimes takes of men who are peaceful and amiable in their ordinary lives.

“That’s true,” I said in reply to him, “but we will have ample revenge for it all some day. A crime by us does not avenge crimes committed by them.”

Several crowded up, as if they would carry out their sudden violent impulse anyhow.

“This man is my kinsman,” I said, “and even if he is a Tory, I am as good an American as any of you, and you shall not put your hands upon him again.”

I was growing angry, and fortunately my size was imposing. By good luck, Luttrell, who had received the blow, came to my assistance.

“He is right, boys,” he said; “leave the man alone, and we’ll pay ’em back in a better way some day.”

That was sufficient, and they dropped their project as suddenly as they had conceived it, turning away and leaving Major Northcote to do as he pleased.

I was standing beside the major, with my hand upon his arm, for I had determined to protect him to the best of my ability. I felt sincerely sorry for him, as to such a man blows and the loss of his dignity were a grievous insult. His hat had been knocked off, his gray hair was awry, and his face was red, except where it was blue around the bruise that he had received; the blood was still dripping upon his mustache and his collar and shoulders, and his coat was torn.

“There is a brook back of the smithy,” I said to him; “come and wash your face, and I will help you straighten out your clothing.” I felt a little ashamed, for, perhaps, I had been partly the cause of the misadventure.

“What well-bred gentlemen your countrymen are!” he said with bitter irony.

I protested that he had merely reaped some of the seed which his Government had sown, and that chance and chance only had made him a victim.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said, and assumed his wonted air of indifference, though I was sure it was only assumption.

He walked to the little brook, and taking up the water in his hands cleansed his face and smoothed his hair and mustache with his fingers. Then he adjusted his disarranged clothing carefully, and while he was occupied so I strolled back to the smithy, and found that the driver was ready to resume the journey. I told him and Luttrell and one or two others that Major Northcote was an official of the British Government, and any further violence toward him might cause us all a lot of trouble. They promised to molest him no more, and I had full confidence in their promise, as their wrath was exhausted, and, moreover, they had handled him pretty roughly as it was.

We climbed into our seats, and the driver called out, “All ready!” The major walked up slowly from the brook. His personal appearance was restored, and his bearing was easy. He resumed his place in silence.

About sunset of the second day from Baltimore we reached Philadelphia, and my anticipations were high as we approached that famous town. Just about that year, or perhaps a year or two earlier, New York began to pass Philadelphia and take first place among the cities of our country; but Philadelphia was still the finer and the more interesting, the historic town, the town in which the great Declaration had been made, the ancient capital, the town which had been the chief scene of action for so many great and famous men, some yet living, some gone. I had fixed already in my mind the points of interest which I wished first to see, and it is almost needless to say that they were Independence and Carpenters’ Halls. Our driver had recommended me to a good tavern, and when I parted with my company of the journey, some of whom had come all the way with me from Baltimore, I felt as if they had become old acquaintances, just as one learns to look upon his comrades in a long sea voyage. Major Northcote also was preparing to go to his tavern, or to whatever place at which he intended to pass the night, and bade me adieu, trusting that I would continue to enjoy my journey. Then he went his way, which was not mine, and I hoped that I would not meet him again.

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