13 An Arrival from the South

The next morning Courtenay and I made our finest toilets and proposed to take a saunter about the Battery, where we might breathe the fresh salt air and see whomsoever might come in our way. Mercer declined to go with us, saying that he had business to which he must attend at once, and promised to meet us at the tavern when we returned at noon for dinner.

Though it was not precisely the time of day for the fashion of New York, there were some people of consequence, nevertheless, strolling about the fine little park that they call the Battery, though I understand now that the fashionable portion of New York is moving farther uptown toward Canal Street.

We were delighted to meet Van Steenkerk among those who were parading. He was dressed, if such a thing were possible, more gorgeously than ever, and we felt somewhat overpowered in his company. But he really knew people, and introduced us to several of consequence. We met the famous Dr. David Hosack, a fine-looking man of thirty-five, Colonel Nicholas Fish, a candidate for lieutenant governor against De Witt Clinton, and then the greatest of them all, the renowned Mr. Washington Irving, whose history of New York I have read five times with the greatest delight. He had a fine face, was dressed in good style, wearing a heavy overcoat with a great fur collar over his other clothing, the morning being cool. He talked to us several minutes, and asked us numerous questions about Kentucky and Tennessee, which he said he intended to visit some day.

When we returned to the tavern we found Mercer there, as he had promised he would be.

“You can’t guess who has come, Phil,” he said.

“I shall not try, for I have not the slightest idea.”

“Cyrus Pendleton and his daughter and a young gentleman whom you know.”

“Bidwell, of course.”

“Yes, Bidwell, of course,” he laughed, though the laugh did not seem wholly real to me. Then he added that they were at our tavern and we should see them at dinner. I was not surprised, as Cyrus Pendleton travelled often and far on business, and I was not astonished either that Bidwell should be in their train, as he seemed to have nothing to do nowadays but to follow them wherever they might go.

This was a great and pleasant event to me, as I had not believed that I would see Marian Pendleton again in many days, and my heart began to beat a more lively tune than its wont.

Cyrus Pendleton received me in his usual constrained manner, Bidwell shook my hand in a way that he would make supercilious, but I could see shining in Marian’s eyes a warmth of welcome that atoned for all coldness in others. They had arrived late the night before, after an easy journey, and Cyrus Pendleton and his daughter were fresh and ready—the father for his business and the daughter to see the great town of New York. Mr. Pendleton turned his talk at once to war, and he was as hot as ever for it. I saw that he would be considered a firebrand by the merchants and shippers and money lenders of New York, who were almost solidly opposed to a conflict with either Great Britain or France, preferring that the nation should endure any sort of disgrace and any amount of suffering, as long as it was confined to obscure individuals, sailors, and such, rather than suffer a diminution of their profits or a loss of the wealth they had gained already. But the tone of the fur trader’s talk pleased us all, myself included, despite my knowledge of the Government’s difficulties, and none had any desire to interfere with it. Seizing the opportunity, I asked Marian to take a ride with me that afternoon, and let me show her a little of New York, to which proposition she consented with alacrity, though there was a frown on her father’s face.

“I had fancied that I would have the pleasure of introducing New York to Miss Pendleton,” said Bidwell, a little irritation showing in his tone. But his annoyance was of no profit to him, since I was very far from asking him to go with us.

I hired two good horses and Marian and I rode northward. In truth, one can ride in no other direction in New York, unless he wishes to ride into the sea, the island is so narrow and peculiar in shape. Marian was a fine horsewoman, as is every one in Kentucky, alike from choice and necessity. We had a crisp, fresh afternoon for our ride, the sunshine being bright and the day having turned somewhat warmer, removing the need of wraps.

As we rode northward, I called to her notice the signs of great activity prevailing everywhere, the vast amount of excavation and building going on, and the rapid growth of the place. It is a fact that 1811 was a very notable year for building in New York, the people realizing that theirs was destined to be the greatest city in America, and being incited to extensive effort by it. We were well beyond Canal Street before we ceased to hear the incessant scrape and shriek of the saw, the beat of the hammer, and the sharp ring of the mason’s trowel. On all sides of us we saw men cutting down hills and filling up marshes, that both might be sites for houses, as if they were bound to build a new Babylon before the year was out. But I was glad when we passed all this and entered the domain of grass and trees and country houses, some portions of the island seeming almost as wild as the hills of our own Kentucky. It was a perfect afternoon, a soft breeze which told of the northward march of spring blowing from the southwest upon us. Through the trees, for we kept to the western side of the island, we could see the silver-gray Hudson, its surface crinkling up like melted glass under the gentle breeze, and now and then showing faint tints of purple and green and blue and red. The masts and spars of the ships in the river were wonderfully near and distinct in the clear air, and, farther on, the Palisades stretched their mighty bastion of rock mile after mile, the sunlight seeking the crannies and touching the foliage which clung to their sides with its gleam of gold.

My mind had been filled for so many days with thoughts of war and danger, rescue and revenge, that the sudden peace, the calmness and beauty of Nature and the presence of a fair woman acted upon me like some powerful potion and gave me visions of another and softer kind. Under their influence I was quiet for a while, and Marian, too, seemed to have no wish to talk. But I took enough glances to see that the spring roses were blooming brightly in her cheeks. Her eyes were turned usually toward the river and the hills and the Palisades beyond, and they sparkled with the light of youth and beauty, strength and happiness. She and I were merely like the rest of Nature, feeling the reawakening of the earth after the winter cold and snow.

“It is very beautiful here,” she said.

“Our own Kentucky is beautiful, too,” I replied, “but this is different. That huge rock wall yonder does not remind me much of our gently rolling blue grass.”

“But I suppose that they are doing the same there that they are doing here,” she said, “talking and thinking of nothing but war and its chances.”

“They are probably talking much more in favour of it there than they are here,” I said. Then I proceeded to urge with great warmth the necessity of preparing for war, and drew comparisons between the spirit of the Kentuckians and the New Yorkers, not at all in favour of the latter. Perhaps I was a little unjust to the New Yorkers, for Kentucky would not be exposed to invasion unless in case of overwhelming defeat, while New York would be in danger at the outset. Nevertheless, I argued that every consideration of honour and safety alike demanded that we fight, an opinion which I yet hold.

“Do you still intend to go to the war, if we have one?” she asked.

“Would you think better of me if I were to go or if I were to stay at home?” I asked.

She laughed, a laugh that was clear and gay in the beginning, and soft and sad at the end.

“The decision is not in my hands,” she said.

I quoted in half-jesting tones:

I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.

She did not answer.

We rode on in the growing spring, noting the tender young grass springing up over the dead blades of last year, the swelling buds on the trees, the deepening tints of green in the foliage on the far cliffs, and the faint odour of spice and rose that comes with the south winds that freshen the earth in spring. Dark was approaching when we rode back into the town and saw the lights gleaming before us.

Courtenay, Mercer, and I called that evening upon the Misses Constance and Fanny Eastlake, whom we had known well in Washington, and the next morning all of us received invitations to a large entertainment two evenings later at the home of John Haslett, a rich merchant, who had a fine house on Canal Street. Mr. Haslett was a business and social acquaintance of Mr. Pendleton’s, and the reception was to be in honour of the Western man and his daughter.

Naturally all of us looked forward to it with anticipation, and neglected nothing that would contribute to our best appearance when the time should come. We three had ordered new clothes immediately upon our arrival in New York, and to our great joy they were ready in time. So when the hour came to go we were all in our best. I wore a gray coat with a slight pearl tint, a long waistcoat of white flowered satin, and coloured small clothes. That fashion has passed now, and even then was about to change, but it had certain advantages in favour of picturesqueness. Courtenay and Mercer were in raiment as splendid, and we set off in high spirits to the Haslett house, where we found a great company assembled.

In Louisville and Lexington at that time the talk when people met in the evenings was sure to be political; in Washington also it was political, with just a slight touch of literature, for little John Agg had been writing his bright verses of society at the capital, and there were others with as great pretensions and less skill; in Baltimore the talk of books and such things grew slightly, and the fashions became conspicuous, although politics still absorbed the greater share of attention. But in Philadelphia and here, even under the strain of expected war, people talked readily of other things than politics, passing from one to another of all the many great interests of the world. I judged that in New York, in ordinary times, political subjects would receive scant attention, though with us of the West they yet largely occupy men’s minds.

Nevertheless, the expected war was bound to have a considerable show of attention, and we soon discovered that the sentiment of New York, at least among the class represented at Mr. Haslett’s house, was largely against it, for wealth loves to take no risks. In such an atmosphere even the red-hot zeal of Cyrus Pendleton was chilled, and he said little on the subject. Many people of distinction, politically, socially, or otherwise, were present, and I was lucky enough to meet Mr. Irving again. He talked about the proposed war, bringing up the subject himself, and while he could not deny the truth of my argument that the war would be just, so far as we were concerned, yet he viewed its imminence with the greatest pain, having more respect and liking for the English than I had.

He said that the English in their home life in their own country had many estimable qualities, and Americans, the majority of whom had seen only their bad side, would like them better some day. He showed much enthusiasm when speaking of the beauties of the English country and of the literary and artistic life of the Old World, so rich in its history and memorable associations. He told of the military might and valour of England, and described his own thrilling experience, the sights that he saw, and the sounds that he heard when he was in a theatre one London evening and the news of the great victory at Trafalgar and Nelson’s glorious death came to the audience there.

I confessed that all these things might be true, but since a nation persisted in showing to us its worst side, it was that worst side with which we would have to deal.

A little later, as I passed into a second room, I met Major Gilbert Northcote, my cousin, dressed with the greatest care, and as easy of manner as ever.

“You here?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes, I am here,” he said in his old ironical tone; “and since we seem to have business in the same towns and with the same people we should prepare for many meetings.”

This was true, and I acknowledged it.

“I should like to remind you of another thing,” he added. “In Washington I was alone, so to speak, but if you will investigate you will find that I have more friends present than you. You will discover that in this large town, where they are compelled to know things, they are not so eager for war with the greatest power in the world as they are down in the raw little village in the woods that you call the capital of your so-called republic.”

“It may be so,” I said—I was afraid that it was—“but I should advise you not to use such language about our capital and country even among your American friends.”

He thanked me in the same ironical tone for my good advice, bowed, and passed on. One surprise is often merely the precedent for a second, and I had not gone five steps before I met face to face with another man whom I had not expected to see there. He was tall and young, and the British uniform, always noted for its bright colours, blazed upon him. The uniform was that of a lieutenant in the navy, and it was my lieutenant of the Guerriere, the officer from whom we had saved the American sailor.

“Good evening,” he said, quite calmly and collectedly.

“Good evening,” I said, adopting his tone and manner, which seemed to me to be suited to the occasion; “since our second meeting is more formal than the first, I think we had better exchange names. I am Philip Ten Broeck, of Kentucky, late a clerk in the office of the Secretary of the Treasury at Washington, at present travelling for pleasure, information, and amusement.”

“I trust that you are finding all three, Mr. Ten Broeck,” he said politely; “I am Henry Arthur Allyn, of Derbyshire, England, third lieutenant aboard his Majesty’s thirty-eight-gun frigate Guerriere, now cruising at the entrance to New York harbour for the glory and benefit of his Majesty and his realm of England.”

“I can not say that I wish the Guerriere success in such efforts, at least in these waters,” I said.

“She is a fine frigate,” he replied, a faint tinge of boasting appearing in his tone, “and is sure to do what she is sent to do.”

“She might meet one of ours some day,” I said.

He laughed. It was no longer the slight tinge of boasting that appeared in his tone. It was incredulity, derision broadly manifest.

“The Guerriere would find no trouble in sinking any American ship that floats to the bottom of the sea,” he said. “Pardon me for plain speaking, but everybody knows it; you Yankees know it. The British navy has crushed all the navies of Europe; odds have amounted to nothing.”

“And yet,” I said, “away back in the Revolution, when we were mere colonies, there was the Bon Homme Richard and the Serapis, the Hyder Ally and the General Monk, the Ranger and the Drake, and other cases where the American ships did not fare the worse, though the odds were not in their favour at the beginning.”

“Isolated instances, mere exceptions,” he said. “Why, even now, in a time of peace, no American ship dare go five miles from your ports without the consent of Great Britain.”

It was true, though it was due to the supineness of our rulers, and not to a lack of spirit among the people. There was no reply to his taunt, and, moreover, our talk had begun to look like a boasting match, so I sought to change the subject, but he returned to it at least in part.

“Perhaps you are surprised,” he said, “that we have not made any complaint about the kidnapping of our sailor, but we do not care to make the affair public; we would rather remain quiet, as we are sure to have ample opportunities for revenge.”

He was a fine example of frank brutality, and Courtenay and Mercer strolling that way, I presented them to him. In a few minutes we passed on, and when I saw him a few minutes later he was talking to some ladies, and his British uniform seemed to bring him no unpopularity. Nor was he the only British officer from the ships present. I soon learned that conspicuous members of the peace party in New York often entertained them, and I was secretly ashamed of it, though I saw that it was no place in which to tell my real feelings.

The two Misses Eastlake were present, and in the course of the evening I saw the elder, Constance, and Marian together. They formed a striking contrast, Marian with her dark hair and eyes and her extremely fair soft complexion, which is the most noted characteristic of Kentucky beauty, while Miss Eastlake was a perfect blonde. I obtained the opportunity to spend a short time with each, but presently I saw that Courtenay had taken possession of Miss Eastlake, while Bidwell and Van Steenkerk, who had met and who seemed to be kindred spirits, were dangling after Marian. The evening was then far advanced, and as the rooms were crowded the air felt close and warm. Finding a convenient door, I stepped outside in search of temporary relief in a purer atmosphere.

It was a side door of the house through which I had passed, and I found myself standing in a narrow little alley. The night had turned dark, and the alley, with the tall houses rising on either side, was just a streak of blackness. But the air, blown through the slit by the wind, was fresh and cool, and I stood there taking it into my lungs in great gulps and enjoying it as if it were rare wine.

The alley created a kind of draught for the air, and as the wind rushed by, crowded up between the high walls, it made a moaning as if crying out for more room. I was startled by the contrast, the abrupt passage from the brilliant, lighted rooms, crowded with people in rich dress, to this narrow, pitchy black little alley, silent save for the groaning of the wind as it passed. Not a sound came from the house which I had just left, not a ray of light. If there were any windows on that side they were closed with heavy shutters.

I looked up at the sky, and it was like gazing from the bottom of a well. There was just a patch of light far above me, which dwindled into nothing before it reached the depths of the well. The walls assumed fantastic shapes in the three-quarter darkness, and the continuous groaning of the wind through the cleft aided my fancy and turned one shape into another.

Presently my eyes, distending in the darkness, saw a gleam of red farther down the alley toward the street. I approached and found that the red was the colour of a uniform, and going yet a little nearer I saw that the wearer of the uniform was my new acquaintance, Lieutenant Henry Arthur Allyn, of his Britannic Majesty’s thirty-eight-gun frigate Guerriere. I presumed that he, too, finding the door, had come out in search of fresh air, but having no wish to continue the acquaintance I withdrew farther up the alley toward the rear of the house. I stopped at the corner, where another small alley, passing in the rear of the building, cut in a right angle across the one in which I stood. It was an improvement, as the air coming in two directions was still fresher and purer than it was in my first position. As I stood there, eyes gaining strength in the darkness, I could yet see the red gleam of the uniform, though the outlines of its wearer were lost.

I did not care to speak to Allyn again. I feared that we might be disagreeable to each other, and it was not the thing to quarrel at a reception purely social. Having this fear in mind I stayed where I was and waited for him to go in first. But he made no movement, being apparently as fond of the fresh air as I was, and since I was in no hurry I continued to wait.

The wind moaned up one alley and shrieked down the other, and the two currents meeting where I stood mingled into something that had the suggestion of a cry in it, as if a human being were in agony. I heard a faint crushing noise, as of a body falling softly. My blood quivered, though I said it was nothing. I heard the soft, complaining noise again, and still knowing that it was nothing pressed my body back against the cold brick wall. Something slid by me, my blood quivering again when it touched me, though I was not noticed, for the figure passed on down the alley toward the red gleam.

What a fool I was! there is nothing supernatural in this world, not even on a dark night in a narrow alley that is like the bottom of a well. I could now see that the man who had passed me with such scant ceremony, for a man it certainly was, bent over somewhat and stepping lightly, but obviously a human figure to eyes that were seeing more the longer they remained in the darkness.

The man’s left hand hung limply by his side, while his right was held stiffly in front of him. A ray of light fell across the right hand and flashed, as it slid off the edge of a knife. It came upon me with suddenness and conviction that this man, slipping out of the dark, was there for murder. But upon whom and for what? The quiver came again in my blood, and became a shudder. The man advanced toward the red gleam, swiftly and with soundless tread. The wind moaned up one alley and shrieked down the other, and I stood there like a great fool, watching the whole thing and doing nothing else.

The man stopped, and, leaning against the wall as if he would plan further before he struck, turned his face slightly upward. A few beams from the top of the cleft fell upon it and showed it to me. The face was gaunt, scarred, and wild, and I knew it. That glimpse recalled me to myself and to a sense of my duty.

I took three long steps, as soundless as his own, and my right hand fell upon the wrist of the hand that held the knife. It was a thin, wasted wrist, and my fingers closed around it and held it as tightly as if it were that of a child. A cry rose to his lips, but my other hand fell over his mouth and shut it off.

“Come back into this other alley, where no one can see us,” I said in a hasty whisper. “Nobody shall harm you. I’m your friend.”

He yielded weakly, going back with me without resistance and without complaint. I took my hand from his mouth and the knife from his other hand, but I kept a firm grip on his shoulder. I cast one look back at the red gleam and it was still there, the wearer of the brilliant uniform seeing and hearing nothing.

We walked down the cross alley where the light was brighter. It shone now directly upon my companion’s face, showing every seam and line, and meeting the look of his excited eyes. His whole expression was that of a frightened, crushed man. I think that if I had pressed my hand upon him he would have dropped to the earth, such was the revulsion of feeling in him, his shame in being caught in such an act, and perhaps a feeling of apprehension too.

“Patterson,” I said, “I know why you were about to murder that officer.”

“It’s true,” he said; “he had flogged me more than once aboard the ship, and he was the worst of them all. But I would not try to do it again. You came just in time. God forgive me!”

He put his hands over his face.

“I am not going to give you up,” I said, “or tell about you. There’s a better way of revenge than the secret blade. I have your knife in my pocket now. Promise me that you will not get another.”

He said he would not.

“Go back to your father’s house,” I said. “Get back your strength, for soon there will be war between England and us. Then, with your place at your gun, you can seek revenge, but never in this way. Do you promise?”

He bowed his head, and as I took my hand off his shoulder he slid away in the darkness, his footfalls making a soft crushing noise and then ceasing as the dark blur of his figure disappeared.

I returned to the first alley. The red gleam was gone, and having enough of the fresh air and the outside of the house I opened the door and entered again. A half hour later I passed Lieutenant Allyn and he nodded to me. But I did not tell him that I had saved his life. It was a secret that I intended to keep.

In another half hour the people were going home. Courtenay, Mercer, and I paid our respects to our hosts, bade the others whom we knew good night, and walked back through the streets toward our tavern. Each of us had a bed in the same room, and we cast off our clothes in a hurry, as it was late and we wanted sleep. I threw my coat over a chair, and Courtenay pushed it a little to one side to make room for his also.

“Hey, what is that?” he exclaimed.

“What is what?” I asked sleepily.

“This that I have found in your pocket?” he replied, holding up a knife, more like a dagger, with a long, keen double edge.

“That,” I said, “is a memento of New York which was presented to me to-night.”

In two minutes we three were sound asleep.

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