LIFE IN THE CAPTIVE CITY.
At this time in New York, John Bradley was a man of considerable
importance. He was not only a native of the city, but many generations
of Bradleys had been born, and lived, and died in the wide, low house
close to the river bank, not far north of old Trinity. They were
originally a Yorkshire family who had followed the great Oliver Cromwell
from Marston Moor to Worcester, and who, having helped to build the
Commonwealth of England, refused to accept the return of royalty. Even
before Charles the Second assumed the crown, Ezra Bradley and his six
sons had landed in New York. They were not rich, but they had gold
sufficient to build a home, and to open near the fort a shop for the
making and repairing of saddlery.
Ever since that time this trade had been the distinctive occupation of
the family, and the John Bradley who represented it in the year 1779,
had both an inherited and a trained capability in the craft. No one in
all America could make a saddle comparable with Bradley's; the trees
were of his own designing, and the leather work unequalled in strength
and beauty. In addition to this important faculty, he was a veterinary
surgeon of great skill, and possessed some occult way of managing
ungovernable horses, which commended itself peculiarly to officers whose
mounts were to be renewed frequently from any available source. And
never had his business been so lucrative as at the present date, for New
York was full of mounted military during the whole period of the war,
and enormous prices were willingly paid for the fine saddlery turned out
of the workshop of John Bradley.
Contrary to all the traditions of his family, he had positively taken
the part of the King, and at the very commencement of the national
quarrel had shown the red ribbon of loyalty to England. His wife dying
at this time, he sent his daughter to a famous boarding-school in
Boston, and his son to the great dissenting academy in Gloucester,
England; then he closed his house and lived solitarily in very humble
fashion above his workroom and shop. In this way, he believed himself to
have provided for the absolute safety of his two children; the boy was
out of the war circle; the thundering drum and screaming fife could not
reach him in the cloistered rooms of the Doddridge School; and as for
Agnes, Mrs. Charlton's house was as secure as a convent; he had no fear
that either English or American soldiers would molest a dwelling full of
schoolgirls. And John Bradley could keep the door of his mouth; and he
believed that a man who could do that might pursue a trade so necessary
as his, with an almost certain degree of safety.
In appearance he was a short, powerful-looking man with tranquil,
meditating eyes and a great talent for silence; an armed soul dwelling
in a strong body. Some minds reflect, shift, argue, and are like the
surface of a lake; but John Bradley's mind was like stubborn clay; when
once impressed it was sure to harden and preserve the imprint through
his life, and perhaps the other one. His Methodism was of this
character, and he never shirked conversation on this subject; he was as
ready to tell his experience to General Howe or General Clinton as to
the members of his own class meeting; for his heart was saturated with
the energy of his faith; he had the substance of things hoped for, the
evidence of things not seen.
On politics he would not talk; he said, "public affairs were in wiser
hands than his, and that to serve God and be diligent in business, was
the length and breadth of his commission." His shop was a place where
many men and many minds met, and angry words were frequently thrown
backward and forward there; yet his needle never paused an instant for
them. Only once had he been known to interfere; it was on a day when one
of De Lancey's troop drew his sword against a boyish English ensign
almost at his side. He stopped them with his thread half drawn out, and
said sternly:
"If you two fools are in a hurry for death, and the judgment after
death, there are more likely places to kill each other than my shop,"
and the words were cold as ice and sharp as steel, and the men went out
rebuked and checked, and washed away their hot temper in wine instead of
blood. For the vision of death, and the judgment after death, which
Bradley's words and manner had evoked, was not to be faced at that hour.
Yet, withal, Bradley was rather a common-looking man, ill-mannered and
rough as hemp to the generality; but not so where childhood or calamity
appealed to his strength or forbearance. In other respects, General Howe
had, not inaptly, described him as "very unlike other men when at
chapel, but not much so, when among horses in the stable, or selling
saddles in the shop."
This was the man who came up from the waterside early one morning in the
beginning of July, singing Dr. Watts' lyrical dream of heaven:
"There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign."
His voice was strong and melodious, and it was evident that Agnes had
inherited her charming vocal power from him. He did not cease as he
entered the house, but continued his hymn until he was in the little
sitting-room, and Agnes finished the verse with him:
"And see the Canaan that we love,
With unbeclouded eyes."
He sat down to breakfast with the heavenly vision in his heart, and
reluctantly let it pass away. But his spiritual nature had hands as well
as wings, and he felt also the stress of the daily labor waiting him.
"The expedition leaves for the Connecticut coast to-day," he said.
"General Clinton is determined to strike a blow at the people in New
Haven, and Fairfield, and New London."
"Well, father? What do you say to that?"
"I say it is better they should be struck down than that they should lie
down."
"Matthews has but just returned from ravaging the river counties of
Virginia, and Clinton from Stony Point. Have they not made misery enough
for a little while? Who is going with the Connecticut expedition?"
"Tryon, and he goes to do mischief with the joy of an ape."
"I heard trumpets sounding and men mustering, as I was dressing myself."
"Trumpets may sound, and not to victory, Agnes. Fire and pillage are
cowardly arms; but I heard Tryon say, any stick was good enough to beat
a dog with, and all who differ from Tryon are dogs. Vile work! Vile
work! And yet all this does not keep New York from dancing and drinking,
and racing, and gambling, and trading; nor yet New York women from
painting and dressing themselves as if there were no such persons as
King George and George Washington."
"Yes, father, a great many of our best families are very poor."
"Those not employed by the government, or those who are not contractors
or privateers, are whipped and driven to the last pinch by poverty. Ah,
Agnes, remember New York before this war began, its sunny streets shaded
with trees, and its busy, happy citizens talking, laughing, smoking,
trading, loving and living through every sense they had at the same
time. Now there is nothing but covert ill-will and suspicion. Our
violent passions have not cured our mean ones; to the common list of
rogueries, we have only added those of contractors and commissioners."
"I think war is the most terrible calamity that can befall a people,
father."
"The despair of subjugated souls would be worse."
"Do they never doubt you, father?"
"Howe never did. That amiable, indolent officer might have liked me all
the more if he had doubted me. Clinton is a different man; and I think
he may have thought my loyalty to royalty lukewarm, for he sent for me
on the King's birthday, and after some talk about a horse and saddle, he
said, 'Mr. Bradley, it is the King's birthday; shall we drink his
Majesty's health?' And I answered him, 'if it please you, General.' So
he filled a glass with Portugal wine for me, and then filling one for
himself raised it, and waited for me to speak. There were several
officers present, and I lifted my glass and said, 'To King George the
Third! God bless him, and make him and all his officers good John Wesley
Methodists!'"
"Then, father?"
"Clinton put down his glass with a ringing guffaw, and the rest followed
him. Only one bit of a beardless boy spoke, and he said: 'you think,
Bradley, Methodism might make his Majesty a better king?' And I
answered, 'I am not here to judge his Majesty's kingship. I think it
would make him and all present, better and happier men.' I did not try
to go away or shirk questions; I looked squarely in their faces until
General Clinton said, 'Very good, Bradley. You will remember Saladin and
the new saddle for him'; and I answered, 'I will see to it at once,
General.' So I went out then, and I think they were not all sure of me;
but they cannot do without me, and they know it is better to put their
doubts out of inquiry. Wise men obey necessity, and that is true for
them as well as for me. Agnes, I want to know something about that
little girl of Semple's? I don't like her coming here day after day. She
will be seeing or hearing something she ought not to see or hear. Women
are dangerous in politics, for, as a rule, politics either find or leave
them vixens."
"Maria is to be trusted."
"You can not be sure. She is passionate, and though a woman in a temper
may not intend to burn any one, she pokes the fire and makes a blaze and
sets others looking and wondering. I can tell you of many such women in
New York; they think ill of their neighbor, and the thoughts get to
their tongues, and before they know the mischief is done. Then, like the
wolf in the fable, they thank God they are not ferocious. Oh, no! They
have only loosed the dogs of war and left others to set them worrying."
"How you do run on, father! And not one word you have said fits the
little Maria, no, nor any one of the Semples. Indeed, I am sure Madame
is as true a patriot as you could find anywhere."
"The old man is as bitter a royalist as I could find anywhere."
"He is, however, a good old man. Last Monday night, when you had to go
to the leaders' meeting, I walked home with Maria and stayed to tea
there. And after tea Madame asked me to sing a hymn, and I sang the one
you were singing this morning, and when I had finished, the Elder said,
'Now, then, we will supplement Isaac Watts with the Apostle John'; and
he opened the Bible and read aloud John's vision of 'the land of pure
delight' from the twenty-first of Revelation; then standing up, he asked
us all to join in the prayer of the Lord Jesus Christ. And we stood up
with him and said to 'Our Father which is in heaven,' the words he
taught us. I felt it to be a very precious few minutes."
"I have nothing to say against such experiences, Agnes. If people would
stick to what Christ says, there might be only one creed and one church;
it is Peter and Paul that make disputing. But if you go to Semple's
house do not stop after sunset. There are bad men about."
"Mr. Neil Semple walked home with me."
"Oh! Mr. Neil Semple! And what had he to say?"
"Very little. He praised my singing, he said it went to his heart; and
he spoke about the moon, and the perfume of the locust flowers. I think
that was all."
"The moon and the locust flowers! What does Mr. Neil Semple know about
the moon and the locust flowers? And he spoke very little! He can talk
fast enough when he is in court, and well paid for it. He is a proud
man--ill-tempered, too, I should think."
"I am sure he is not ill-tempered. He is as sweet as a child to his
father and mother; and Maria says many pleasant things about him."
"Let him pass for what he is worth; but remember always this thing,
Agnes, I am trusting my life in your hands. If you inadvertently
repeated even what I have said this morning, I should be hard put to
answer it."
"You know well that I would die rather than reveal anything you said to
me. My life for yours, father!"
"I trust you as my own soul. You are an inexpressible comfort to me. I
can speak to you. I can open my heart to you. I can get relief and
sympathy from you. Your coming home makes me a hundred-fold safer. If
your brother with his hot temper and young imprudences had been here, no
one knows what would have happened before this. I thank God continually
that he is so far out of the way. Has he left school yet?"
"School does not close until June."
"Then he will go directly to Doctor Brudenel in London?"
"That was your instruction to him."
"When did you have a letter from him?"
"It is nearly a month since."
"When will you write to him next?"
"I write to him every opportunity I have."
"Does he need money? Young men are often extravagant."
"He has never named money to me. He is well and happy."
"Tell him he must not come home, not think of coming home till I give
him permission. Tell him that his being away from home is my great
comfort. Make that plain to him, Agnes, my great comfort. Tell him he
must stay in London till a man can speak his mind safely in New York,
whatever his mind may be."
"I will tell him all, father."
Then Bradley went to his shop and his daughter sat down to consider
with herself. Many persons stimulate or regulate thought in movement and
find a positive assistance to their mental powers in action of some
kind, but Agnes had the reverse of this temperament. She needed quiet,
so closing the door of her room she sat still, recalling, reviewing, and
doing her best to anticipate events. There were certain things which
must be revealed to Maria, wholly, or in part, if she continued to visit
the house, and Agnes saw not how to prevent those visits. Nor did she
wish to prevent them; she loved Maria and delighted in her
companionship. They had many acquaintances and events in common to talk
about, and she was also interested in Maria's life, which was very
different to her own. She felt, too, that her influence was necessary
and valuable to the young girl, suddenly thrown into the midst of what
Agnes regarded as sinful and dangerous society. And then into this
process of self-examination there drifted another form--the stately,
rather sombre, but altogether kindly personality of Neil Semple. It was
linked with Maria, she could not separate the two; and as intrusion
involved some heart-searching she was not inclined to, she rather
promptly decided the question without any further prudential
considerations, and as she did so Maria called her.
She answered the call gladly. It was to her one of those leadings on
which she spiritually relied, and her face was beaming with love and
pleasure as she went down stairs to her friend. Maria was standing in
the middle of the small parlor, most beautifully arrayed in an Indian
muslin, white as snow and lustrously fine, as only Dacca looms could
weave it. Her shoulders were covered with a little cape of the same
material, ruffled and laced and fastened with pink ribbons, and on her
head was a bewitching gypsy hat tied under her chin with bows of the
same color. Her uncle stood at her side, smiling with grave tolerance at
her girlish pride in her dress, and the pretty airs with which she
exhibited it to Agnes.
"Am I not handsome?" she cried. "Am I not dressed in the most perfect
taste? Why do you not say as Miss Robinson is sure to say--'La, child,
you are adorable!'"
Agnes fell quite naturally into her friend's excited mood, and in the
happiest tone of admiring mimicry, repeated the words dictated. She made
the most perfect contrast to Maria; her pale blue gown of simple
material and simple fashion was without ornament of any kind, except its
large falling collar of white muslin embroidery, but the long, unbroken
line of the skirt seemed to Neil Semple the most fitting, the only
fitting, garment he had ever seen on any woman.
"Its modesty and simplicity is an instinct," he thought; "and I have
this morning seen a woman clothed by her raiment. Now I understand the
difference between being dressed and clothed. Maria is dressed, Agnes is
clothed; her garments interpret her."
He was lifted up by his love for her; and her calico gown became a royal
robe in his imagination. Every time he saw her she appeared to have been
adorned for that time only. It was a delightful thing for him to watch
her tenderness and pride in Maria. It was motherly and sisterly, and
without a thought of envy, and he trembled with delight when she turned
her sweet, affectionate face to his for sympathy in it. And really this
morning Agnes might reasonably have given some of her admiring interest
to Maria's escort. He was undeniably handsome. His suit of fine, dark
cloth, his spotless lawn ruffles, his long, light sword, his black
beaver in his hand, were but fitting adjuncts to a noble face, graven
with many experiences and alight with the tender glow of love and the
steady fire of intellectual power and purpose.
He did not stay at this time many minutes, but the girls watched him to
the garden gate and shared the courtly salute of his adieu there. "Is he
not the most graceful and beautiful of men?" asked Maria.
"Indeed he is very handsome," replied Agnes.
"There is not an officer in New York fit to latch his shoe buckles."
"Then why do you dress so splendidly, only to show yourself to them?"
"Well, Agnes, see how _they_ dress. As we were coming here we met men in
all the colors of the rainbow; they were rattling swords and spurs, and
tossing their heads like war horses scenting the battle afar off."
"You are quoting the Bible, Maria."
"Uncle did it first. You don't suppose I thought of that. We passed a
regiment of Hessians with their towering brass-fronted helmets, their
yellow breeches, and black gaiters; really, Agnes, they were
grand-looking men."
"Very," answered Agnes, scornfully. "I have seen them standing like
automatons, taking both the commands and the canes of their officers.
Very grand-looking indeed!"
"You need not be angry at the poor fellows. It must be very disagreeable
for them to be caned in public and not dare to move an eyelash or utter
a word of protest."
"Men that will suffer such things are no better than the beasts of the
field; not as good, for the beasts do speak in their way with hoofs, or
horns, or teeth, or claws, and that to some purpose, when their sense of
justice is outraged."
"It is all military discipline, you know, Agnes. And you must allow, the
regiments make fine appearances. I dare say these Hessians have to be
caned--most men have, in one way or another. Uncle is coming back for me
this afternoon. We are going to see the troops leaving; it will be a
fine sight. I told uncle you might like to go with us, and he said he
would ask you, but he did not."
"He had more grace granted him, Maria."
"I think he is a little afraid of you, Agnes."
"Nothing of the kind. He had sense enough to understand I would not go."
Then, without further thought or preliminary she said: "Sit down here
beside me, Maria, I have something very important to say to you. I know
that I can perfectly trust you, but I want to hear you tell me so. Can
you keep a secret inviolate and sure, Maria?"
"If the secret is yours, Agnes, neither in life nor in the hour of death
would I tell it."
"If you were questioned----"
"I should be stupid and dumb; if it was your secret, fire could not burn
it out of me."
"I believe you. Many times in Boston you must have known that a young
man called on me. You may have seen his face."
"None of the girls saw his face but Sally Laws; we all knew that he
called on you. I should recognize his figure and his walk anywhere, but
his face I never saw. Sally said he was as handsome as Apollo."
"Such nonsense! He has an open, bright, strong countenance, but there is
nothing Greek about him, nothing at all. He is an American, and he loves
his native land, and would give his life for her freedom."
"And he will come here to see you now?"
"Yes, but my father must not know it."
"I thought you were always so against anything being done unknown to our
parents. When I wanted to write good-bye to Teddy Bowen you would not
let me."
"I expected you to remind me of this, and at present I can give you no
explanation. But I tell you positively that I am doing right. Can you
take my word for it?"
"I believe in you, Agnes, as if you were the Bible. I know you will only
do right."
"All that you see or hear or are told about this person must be to you
as if you had dreamed a dream, and you must forget that you ever had
it."
"I have said that I would be faithful. Darling Agnes, you know that you
may trust me."
"Just suppose that my friend should be seen, and that my father should
be told," she was silent a moment in consideration of such an event, and
Maria impulsively continued:
"In that case I would say it was my friend."
"That would not be the truth."
"But he might be my friend, we might have become friends, not as he is
your friend, nothing like that, just a friend. Are you very fond of him,
Agnes?"
"I love him as my own life."
"And he loves you in that way?"
"He loves me! Oh, yes, Maria, he loves me! even as I love him."
"Sweetest Agnes, thank you for telling me. I will see what you tell me
to see, and hear what you tell me to hear; that, and that only. I will
be as true to you as your own heart."
"I am sure you will. Some day you shall know all. Now, we will say no
more until there is a reason; everything is so uncertain. Tell me about
the rout last night."
"It was at Governor Robertson's. His daughter called and asked me to
honor them with my company; and grandmother said I ought to go, and
uncle Neil said I ought to go--so I went. There was a great time
dressing me, but I made a fine appearance when it was done. I wore my
silver-tissue gown, and grandmother loaned me her pearl necklace. She
told me how many generations of Gordon ladies had worn it, and I felt
uncanny as she clasped it round my throat. I wondered if they knew----"
"You should not wonder about such things. Did you dance much?"
"I had the honor to dance with many great people. Every gentleman danced
one minuet with his partner, and then began cotillon and allemand
dances; and there were some songs sung by Major Andre, and a fine supper
at midnight. It was two o'clock when I got home."
"Tell me who you talked with."
"Oh, everybody, Agnes; but I liked most of all, the lady who stays with
the Robertsons--Mrs. Gordon; her husband was with Burgoyne and is a
prisoner yet. She was very pleasant to me; indeed, she told Uncle Neil
'I was the perfectest creature she had ever seen,' and that she was
'passionately taken with me.' She insisted that I should be brought to
her, and talked to me about my dress and my lovers, and also about
grandfather and grandmother."
"She lived with them once, and helped to make great sorrow in their
house."
"I know. Grandmother does not forgive her."
"And your uncle?"
"He is very civil to her, for she is vastly the fashion. She played
cards all the evening, and called me to her side more often than I
liked. She said I brought her luck. I don't think she approved of my
dancing so often with Captain Macpherson. She asked questions about him,
and smiled in a way that was not pleasant, and that made me praise the
Highlander far more than I meant to, and she barely heard me to the end
of my talk ere she turned back to her cards, and as she did so, said:
'What a paragon in tartan! Before this holy war there may have been such
men, but if you are a good child pray that a husband may drop down from
heaven for you; there are no good ones bred here now.' Then every one
near began to protest, and she spread out her cards and cried, 'Who
leads? Diamonds are trump.' When she called me next, she was sweeping
the sovereigns into her reticule; and Governor Ludlow said she was
Fortune's favorite, and uncle Neil said, 'I see, Madame, that you now
play for gold,' and I think uncle meant something that she understood,
for she looked queerly at him for a moment, and then answered, 'Yes I
play for money now. I confess it. Why not? If you take away that excuse,
the rest is sinning without temptation.' She is so well bred, Agnes, and
she speaks with such an air, you are forced to notice and remember what
she says."
Agnes was troubled to think of the innocent child in such society, and
without obtruding counsel, yet never restraining it when needful, she
did her best to keep Maria's conscience quick and her heart right. It
was evident that she regarded the whole as a kind of show, whose color
and sound and movement attracted her; yet even so, this show was full of
temptation to a girl who had no heart care and no lack of anything
necessary for the pride of life.
This afternoon the half-camp and half-garrison condition of New York was
very conspicuous. All was military bustle and excitement; trumpets were
calling, drums beating, and regiments parading the streets once devoted
to peaceful commerce and domestic happiness. Royalist merchants stood in
the doors of their shops exchanging snuff-box compliments and flattering
prophecies concerning the expedition about to leave--prophecies which
did not hide the brooding fear in their eyes or the desponding shake of
the head when sure of a passer's sympathy. And a sensitive observer
would have felt the gloom, the shame and sorrow that no one dared to
express; for, just because no one dared to express it, the very stones
of the streets found a voice that spoke to every heart. The bitterest
royalist remembered. All the riot of military music could not drown the
memory of sounds once far more familiar--the cheerful greeting of men in
the market place, and all the busy, happy tumult of prosperous trade;
the laughter and chatter of joyful women and children, and the music of
the church bells above the pleasant streets.
Neil was silent and unhappy; Maria full of the excitement of the passing
moment. They sat in the open window of Neil's office and watched company
after company march to the warships in which they were to embark:
Grenadiers of Auspach with their towering black caps and sombre military
air; brass-fronted Hessians; gaudy Waldeckers; English corps glittering
in scarlet pomp; and Highlanders loaded with weapons, but free and
graceful in their flowing contour. On these latter especially, both Neil
and Maria fixed their interest. Who can say how long national feeling,
expatriated, may live? Neil leaped to his feet as the plaided men came
in sight. Their bagpipes made him drunk with emotion; they played on his
heartstrings and called up centuries of passionate feelings. He clasped
his sword unconsciously; his hand trembled with that magnetic attraction
for iron that soldiers know. At that moment he said proudly to his soul,
"Thou also art of Scottish birth!" and a vision of hills and straths
and of a tossing ocean filled his spiritual sight.
Maria's interest was of the present and was centered on the young
captain walking at the head of his company; for Quentin Macpherson was a
born soldier, and whatever he might lack in a ball-room, he lacked
nothing at the head of his men. His red hair flowing from under his
plaided bonnet was the martial color; it seemed proper to his stern face
and to the musket and bayonet, the broadsword, dirk and pistols which he
wore or carried with the ease and grace of long usage. He stepped so
proudly to the strains of "Lochaber;" he looked so brave and so
naturally full of authority that Maria was, for the moment, quite
subjugated. She had told him on the previous night, at what place she
was to view the embarkment; and she detected the first movement which
showed him to be on the watch for her.
This fleeting pleasure of exhibiting himself at his best to the girl he
loves, is a soldier's joy; and the girl is heartless who refuses him the
small triumph. Maria was kind, and she shared the triumph with him; she
knew that her white-robed figure was entrancing to the young captain,
and she stood ready to rain down all of Beauty's influence upon his
lifted face. Only a moment was granted them, but in that one moment of
meeting eyes, Maria's handkerchief drifted out of her hand and
Macpherson caught it on his lifted bayonet, kissed, and put it in his
bosom. The incident was accomplished as rapidly and perfectly as events
unpremeditated usually are; for they are managed by that Self that
sometimes takes our affairs out of all other control and does
perfectly, in an instant, what all our desiring and planning would have
failed to do in any space of time.
Neil was much annoyed, and made a movement to stop the fluttering lawn.
"What have you done, Maria?" he asked angrily. "The Van der Donck's and
half a dozen other women are watching you."
"I could not help it, Uncle Neil. I do not know how it happened. I never
intended to let it fall. Honor bright! I did not."
And perhaps Neil understood, for he said no more on the subject as they
walked silently home through the disenchanted city. All the bareness of
its brutal usage was now poignantly evident, and the very atmosphere was
heavy with an unconquerable melancholy. Some half-tipsy members of the
De Lancey militia singing about "King George the Third" only added to
the sense of some incongruous disaster. Everyone has felt the
intolerable _ennui_ which follows a noisy merry-making--the deserted
disorder, the spilled wine, the disdained food, the withered flowers,
the silenced jest, the giving over of all left to desecration and
destruction--all this, and far more was concentrated in that wretched
_ennui_ of unhappy souls which filled the streets of New York that hot
summer afternoon. For an intense dejection lay heavy on every heart.
Like people with the same disease, men avoided and yet sought each
other. They dared not say, they hardly dared to think, that their love
for the King was dying of a disease that had no pity--that their idol
had himself torn away the roots of their loyalty. But they closed their
shops early, and retreated to the citadel of their homes. Melancholy,
hopelessness, silence, infected the atmosphere and became epidemic, and
men and women, sensitive to spiritual maladies, went into their chambers
and shut their doors, but could not shut out the unseen contagion. It
rained down on them in their sleep, and they dreamed of the calamities
they feared.
It was on this afternoon that John Bradley received a new "call" and
answered it. Affected deeply by the events of the day, he left his shop
in the middle of the hot afternoon and went about some business which
took him near the King's College Building, then crowded with American
prisoners. As he came under the windows, he heard a thin, quavering
voice singing lines very dear and familiar to him:
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
Then there was a pause and Bradley called aloud: "Brother, who are you?"
"William Watson," was the answer.
"I thought so. How are you?"
"Dying," then a pause, and a stronger voice added, "and in need of all
things."
"Brother Watson, what do you want that I can get now?"
"Cold water to drink, and some fresh fruit," and then, as if further
instructed the voice added, "when you can, a clean shirt to be buried
in."
"Tell William he shall have them." His whole manner had changed. There
was something he could do, and he went at once for the fruit and water.
Fortunately, he knew the provost of this prison and had done him some
favors, so he had no hesitation in asking him to see that the small
comforts were given to William Watson.
"He was a member of my class meeting, Provost," said Bradley; "a
Methodist leader must love his brother in Christ." Here Bradley's voice
failed him and the Provost added, "I knew him too--he used to live in
good style in Queen Street. I will see that he gets the fruit and
water."
"And if you need anything for yourself in the way of saddlery, Provost,
I will be glad to serve you."
"I was thinking of a new riding whip."
"I will bring you the best I have. One good turn deserves another."
Then, after a little further conversation he turned homeward, and men
who met him on the way wondered what was the matter with John Bradley.
For, without cessation, as he walked, he went over and over the same
three words, _"Christ forgive me!"_ And no one could smile at the
monotonous iteration; the man was in too dead earnest; his face was too
remorseful, his voice too tragic.
The next morning he was very early in Superintendent Ludlow's office.
The great man of the Court of Police had not arrived, but Bradley waited
until he came.
"You are an early visitor, Mr. Bradley," he said pleasantly.
"I have a favor to ask, Judge."
"Come in here then. What is it? You are no place or plunder hunter."
"Judge, a month ago you asked me to make you a saddle."
"And you would not do it. I remember."
"I could not--at least I thought I could not; now, if you will let me, I
will make you the fittest saddle possible--it shall be my own work,
every stitch of it."
"How much money do you want for such a saddle, Bradley?"
"I want no money at all. I want a very small favor from you."
"Nothing for the rebels, I hope. I cannot grant any favor in that
direction."
"I want nothing for the rebels; I want one hour every Sunday afternoon
in the College prison with my class members."
"Oh, I don't know, Bradley----"
"Yes, you know, Judge. You know, if I give you my promise, I will keep
every letter of it."
"What is your promise?"
"I want only to pray with my brothers or to walk awhile with them as
they go through the Valley of the Shadow. I promise you that no word of
war, or defeat or victory; that no breath of any political opinion shall
pass my lips. Nor will I listen to any such."
"Bradley, I don't think I can grant you this request. It would not be
right."
"Judge, this is a thing within your power, and you must grant it. We
shall stand together at the Judgment, and when the Lord Christ says, 'I
was hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no
drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me
not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not:' don't let me be
obliged to plead, 'Lord Christ, I would have fed, and clothed, and
visited the sick and in prison, but this man barred my way.' Open the
door, Judge, and it shall be well with you for it."
Then, without a word, Ludlow turned to his desk and wrote an order
permitting John Bradley to visit his friends for one hour every Sunday
afternoon; and as he did so, his face cleared, and when he signed his
name he had the glow of a good deed in his heart, and he said:
"Never mind the saddle, Bradley. I don't want to be paid for this thing.
You say William Watson is dying--poor Willie! We have fished together
many a long summer day"; and he took a few gold pieces from his pocket
and added, "they are for the old friend, not for the rebel. You
understand. Good morning, sir."
"Good morning, Judge. I won't overstep your grant in any way. I know
better."
From this interview he went direct to the prison and sent the gold to
the dying man. And as he stood talking to the provost the dead cart
came, and five nearly naked bodies were thrown into it, their faces
being left uncovered for the provost's inspection. Bradley gazed on them
with a hot heart; emaciated to the last point with fever and want,
there was yet on every countenance the peace that to the living, passeth
understanding. They had died in the night-watches, in the dark, without
human help or sympathy, but doubtless sustained by Him whose name is
_Wonderful!_
"All of them quite common men!" said the provost carelessly--"country
rustics--plebeians!"
But when Bradley told his daughter of this visit, he added,
passionately, _"Plebeians!_ Well, then, Agnes, _Plebeians who found out
the secret of a noble death!"_
Sweeter than Joy, tho' Joy might abide;
Dearer than Love, tho' Love might endure,
Is this thing, for a man to have died
For the wronged and the poor!
Let none be glad until all are free;
The song be still and the banner furled,
Till all have seen what the poets see
And foretell to the world!