The melancholy contents of this letter will sufficiently account for its
being written by a stranger to you. The duty assigned to me will,
however, at once show me the friend of Mr. Flint, and the painful
witness of the distress, into which all his family are plunged.
The sudden death of Mr. Flamall, his uncle, is an event, which, under
the _common_ circumstances of human life, would require precaution, in
the communication of it at _Farefield Hall_. But my poor friend has to
dread every thing, lest the catastrophe of his uncle’s end, should reach
his mother through the channel of the public papers. He conjures you to
consult his brother Malcolm in those measures which are necessary to
prevent this blow reaching the hall too suddenly for his mother’s
strength. Before I begin the detail of those particulars, which you will
naturally wish to have before you, permit me to have the satisfaction of
assuring you, that my _patient_, and I may add my _dearest friend_,
Philip Flint, is in a degree recovered from the illness brought on by
the first agitation of his spirits; his amiable wife is well, and as yet
a stranger to the shocking tale. I will now begin my melancholy task.
The arrival of a large vessel in this port, from New York, and commanded
by a Captain Nelson, may be assigned as _one_ of those cases which have
produced the event before me. In consequence of Mr. Flamall’s having a
concern in the cargo, he was induced to quit his retirement; and to come
to the Creek plantation, near this place. To this circumstance I was a
stranger, however, having, as Mr. Flint’s friend, dropped a man,
generally condemned for his inflexibility; and at present forgotten by
that society, which for some time he had so carefully, and gloomily
avoided.
I happened to be at the general rendezvous, a coffee-house here, when a
merchant, of the name of Gilpin, an intimate friend of mine, entered,
with Captain Nelson, the newly arrived stranger. I was presented to him
by my friend: and, in a way, which the captain and myself both appeared
to understand. I found, that Mr. Gilpin had long known this gentleman;
and in a few minutes I thought I had long known him myself, from the
frankness of his manner. We were settling our plan for dining together;
when one of the waiters told Mr. Nelson, that “Mr. Flamall was on
horseback at the door, and wished to speak to him for a minute.” The
captain instantly obeyed the summons, and, in a few minutes, he returned
to the room, and I saw Flamall pass the window. I remarked to some one
near me, that he looked ill and dejected. The captain, was now disturbed
by a more serious business. Some one in the passage called loudly for
assistance; and the captain was told, that “his steward was in the
agonies of death in the corridor.” We flew to the spot; and, as a
medical man, it became my duty to succour the sick one. He had been
suddenly surprised, by the bursting of a large blood vessel, and the
case was critical and justly alarming. I was, however, struck by the
uncommon interest which the captain appeared to take in the poor man’s
preservation. Every accommodation the house could afford was speedily
procured; and I saw my patient in a spacious bedroom, with a negro woman
for his attendant, whom I knew was a good nurse. Some abatement of the
hæmorrhage, having succeeded to bleeding in the arm, and other remedies,
I left him to his repose; and joined my friends at Mr. Gilpin’s, whose
house was not remote from my patient. Captain Nelson listened to my
account of him with the utmost anxiety. “I would give half I am worth,”
said he, grasping my hand, “to save this man.” This complaint came on in
a moment, they tell me: he was apparently well when I passed him; and
that was not five minutes before you saw him; those near him say it was
a fit; for they heard him groan, and he rose from his seat, as if to
seek air, when he fell back and the blood gushed from his mouth. I saw,
in this account, his hopes of the man’s recovery; which I could not
encourage, and wished not to depress.
After dinner he attended me to visit him. “I have known this man many
years,” said he. “I have no doubt of his having been unfortunate; his
education and manners speak the gentleman: his conduct and industry the
honest man. His reserve and dejection have imposed on me a respect for
his misfortunes; and to this hour I only know, that his name is Charles,
and that he is _a very extraordinary man_; for his fidelity to me, has
not lessened his influence with my people; who all love him as their
best friend. To-morrow morning, I shall bring his boy on shore to be
with him.” “Then he has a son?” observed I. “One of his adoption,”
answered he; “and his motives for so doing, will give you his character.
I had lost sight of him for some years, having left him in London. In
his passage from thence to New York, where, as it appears, he was as
poor as when I first saw him, he was a common seaman: one of the crew, a
native of New York fell sick and died on the passage, recommending to
Charles his aged mother, and his child, _this boy_. He promised to take
care of them, and he kept his word; for taking up his abode in the old
woman’s miserable hovel, he supported the family by his labour. In this
situation, I again met him. The death of the woman, and my offer to take
the boy with him, induced him to accept the post of ship steward on
board my ship; where he has been several years. You will judge of him as
a schoolmaster, when you see George.” “Poor lad!” continued the captain,
“he will break his heart; but I will be his friend.”
I returned to my patient, but did not allow him to speak; he was told
that his George would be with him in the morning, and his hand only was
offered to the captain.
On entering the room the following day, I found George at his post. The
patient was raised by his pillows; and one of the finest youths, my eyes
ever beheld, filled the space they had left. He was bending over the
sick man, in an attitude convenient for his head to rest on the lad’s
shoulder, who was, as I judged, between fifteen and sixteen, and in the
full vigour of youth. He raised his penetrating large black eyes to my
face, whilst I made my enquiries of the woman, relative to the condition
of his father. Her replies were not unfavourable; and never shall I
forget the look of gratitude I then received! But overcome by his
sensibility, he wept most bitterly, and hid his face. Captain Nelson
entered at this moment. “Why, how is this, my boy,” cried he
endeavouring to hide his feelings, “Did you not promise to have a good
heart! The doctor will soon set us all to rights again; so have
courage.” The _doctor_, my dear Sir, was not so sanguine; but
recommending silence and repose took his leave: George assuring me, that
he would watch his father’s _eyes_, and those would tell him what he
wanted. In the evening I was with him again. All was in order, and a
silence, like death, prevailed in the room. George was reading a French
Telemachus; the patient was dosing; and the negro woman was dismissed
for some hours of needful rest. The next day I had hopes, that my
patient had a chance; but the following morning I found, to my surprise,
only the nurse with him. On enquiry, I learned from her, that his father
had sent him with a letter to the Creek plantation. “Why did you not
find a porter?” asked I. “Because he said,” answered she, in a low
whisper, “he could not die contented, unless he knew that it was
delivered to Mr. Flamall.” Though by no means pleased with this exertion
of writing, I said but little to the sick man, contenting myself with
his answer. “_I shall write no more._” I prolonged my stay, partly to
supply nurse’s absence, whom I sent for something needful, and partly to
gratify my curiosity. The sick man’s person was calculated to excite it.
His physiognomy was noble; his features regular; dark blue eyes, which,
though sunk and dimmed by his condition, were expressive of manly
fortitude; his hair was of a light chestnut colour, but in places,
striped with the signs of age, for it was even changed to nearly white;
he was extremely fair; and the paleness of death was relieved, by a
lingering colour in his lips. Observing the beauty of his teeth, I asked
him his age. He replied, that he believed he was turned of fifty. He was
neatly dressed in a blue and white cotton waistcoat and trowsers; and
reclined on the outside of the matrass. A statuary would not have wished
for a more perfect model of the human form! He was in height, I should
think, within six feet. I observed to him, that his chest was not made
to oppress his lungs; and that I flattered myself, the malady which had
so suddenly overtaken him, might have for its course, a less dangerous
source. He smiled, and said, he had never had any tendency to
consumptive symptoms; nor did he ever attribute his want of health to a
weak constitution. At this instant George entered, covered with dust,
and exhausted by heat and fatigue. He approached the bed, and said, “I
have seen Mr. Flamall, and given your letter into his own hand.” “It is
well:” replied my patient, with an emotion that alarmed me; for I was
still feeling the pulse, and those would have betrayed it, without the
suffusion which passed his cheek. I turned towards George, and after
lecturing him with kindness, for his imprudent speed, I insisted on his
leaving the room, and laying down for some hours. A sign, from his
father which he understood, made him docile, and he retired. Soon after
I left the sick room, cautioning the nurse, neither to admit Mr. Flamall
nor any message from him or others to reach her charge; and taking some
sherbet in my hand, I sought George’s little room. He had obeyed me, and
had taken off his clothes. I told him the consequences which would
result from any exertion or surprise to his father; warning him to be on
the watch. He said, he did not believe his father expected either a
visit, or an answer from the gentleman in question. He had told him not
to wait for any orders; and had appeared only anxious, that his own
letter should reach him safely.
I proceeded to the coffee-house, where, as I expected, I met Captain
Nelson. I gave him this detail; and he thought no more of it, I believe,
for he was surrounded by busy faces; and he told me, that he should be
with Charles soon, and would meet me at Mr. Gilpin’s before sunset.
I dined with my friend; and we were quietly conversing, when Captain
Nelson bursting into the room, said with agony, “it is all over with
him! nothing can now save him!” I waited not for more intelligence, but
seizing my hat, hastily made my way to the sick man, Nelson following
me. It was, indeed, “all over with him;” all our care and attention
availed nothing! For in a few hours he died. Poor Nelson, during this
scene of painful suspense, lamented, in terms of the bitterest grief,
that he had caused the relapse. He said, that he had found him quiet and
apparently easy. “The nurse said George was sound asleep, and mentioned
your orders,” added the captain. “I asked Charles what were his
connexions with Mr. Flamall;” he calmly replied, that he had known him
in his youth. “And was that all?” asked I; “come, be open with me, you
have had George in your head, I dare say, and fancying to make a friend
for the poor lad; but give yourself no concern about him. Let the worst
come to the worst, he will never want a father whilst I have a guinea;
so try and be a man again, and the brother of one who loves you as a
brother.” He grasped my hand with convulsive strength. “My God!” said he
aloud, “I thank thee, and die satisfied that thou art a God, merciful
and gracious!” “The blood again gushed from his mouth; and I flew to
Gilpin’s.”
I will pass over the sorrow of his poor George, in order to hasten to
the next still more serious and shocking event. _Mr. Sinclair_, the
brother of my patient, Mrs. Flint, brought me a summons to “Upland,” the
residence of the family, prepared to expect hourly the lady’s want of my
assistance. I accompanied her brother home; but found Mrs. Flint, though
in her own apartment, with her female friends, perfectly contented with
my being within the house. The interval was devoted to my friend
Philip’s amusement, whose anxiety for the safety of his wife was
apparent. We were rallying him on this subject; and drinking to the
health of his expected blessing, when Mr. Sinclair was called from the
table. I will pass over the detail. Juba, an old and freed slave of the
late Mr. Cowley’s, but who has from his master’s death remained in his
post of superintendent at the Creek house, was the bearer of the
intelligence which follows; and which you will conceive produced the
most dreadful sensations of horror and surprise. “Mr. Flamall was dead,
and by his own hand!” Sinclair and myself lost no time, in returning
with Juba, leaving Mr. Flint to the care of Mr. Lindsey, and Mr.
Montrose, his friends, and inmates.
On the road Juba gave us the following particulars. On the preceding
morning, he it was, who saw George, who enquired of him for Mr. Flamall,
saying, he had a letter to deliver to him, which he was ordered to give
to no other person. “I asked the lad from whom he had received his
commission,” continued the faithful Juba, and he replied, from Captain
Nelson’s steward. Knowing that we had many bales in his ship, I
immediately concluded, that the letter referred to business, relative to
these goods; and I was on the point of telling the young man, that I
would be answerable for the safety of the letter; but at that moment,
Mr. Flamall appeared, and took it himself. I shall be at Kingston to
day, said he, holding the letter carelessly in his hand, and shall speak
to your captain. The lad bowed, and was retreating; when Mr. Flamall
asked him to rest, and take some refreshment. He declined the offer,
replying that his father would want him. I entered the house; and he
departed. Mr. Flamall was not long, I believe, before he went to his
apartment. He saw no one for some hours; at length he rang his bell, and
ordered his horse to be prepared. We have lately observed him as a man
struggling with something wrong in his mind. He has been very odd at
times; and his groom said, he was in one of his silent fits; and chose
to go by himself. He did not return home, till a late hour in the
evening. The horse appeared heated and fatigued. He went to his bed
room, saying, that he wanted nothing then, and should ring in the
morning, when he did. Hour succeeded hour. We heard him pacing in the
library; and we began to fear that all was not right with him. “His
servant was curious, as well as uneasy; he stopped me on the staircase,
to tell me, that he had peeped through the key hole, that his master was
in his wrapping gown and night cap, and was writing, and with a
countenance that made him tremble: another servant was going to make his
observations by the same means,” continued poor Juba, “when the report
of a pistol checked him, and appalled us all. We burst into the room. It
was too late! you will see such a corpse! I lost not, however, my
presence of mind; one look at the shattered mangled head of the poor
wretch was enough for me! But whilst others were gazing on the scene of
horror, I secured the written papers on his desk; which I will now give
you.”
Juba drew the rumpled sheets of paper from his bosom, and presented them
to Mr. Sinclair. It is needless for me to add, that the horrid
explosion, had done its work. The aim was sure!
Herewith, you have the copies of the two letters above mentioned. Mr.
Sinclair recommends caution to you in respect to their _mysterious_
contents.
I shall have perhaps time to add something more to this letter; but lest
I be mistaken, receive, Sir, the unfeigned regard, and sympathy of your
very humble servant,