Philip Winwood Part 1

Philip Winwood.

by Robert Neilson Stephens.

CHAPTER I.

_Philip's Arrival in New York._

'Tis not the practice of writers to choose for biography men who have made no more noise in the world than Captain Winwood has; nor the act of gentlemen, in ordinary cases, to publish such private matters as this recital will present. But I consider, on the one hand, that Winwood's history contains as much of interest, and as good an example of manly virtues, as will be found in the life of many a hero more renowned; and, on the other, that his story has been so partially known, and so distorted, it becomes indeed the duty of a gentleman, when that gentleman was his nearest friend, to put forth that story truly, and so give the lie for ever to the detractors of a brave and kindly man.

There was a saying in the American army, proceeding first from Major Harry Lee, of their famous Light Horse, that Captain Winwood was in America, in the smaller way his modesty permitted, what the Chevalier Bayard was in France, and Sir Philip Sidney in England. This has been received more than once (such is the malice of conscious inferiority) with derisive smiles or supercilious sneers; and not only by certain of his own countrymen, but even in my presence, when my friends.h.i.+p for Winwood, though I had been his rival in love and his enemy in war, was not less known than was my quickness to take offence and avenge it. I dealt with one such case, at the hour of dawn, in a glade near the Bowery lane, a little way out of New York. And I might have continued to vindicate my friend's character so: either with pistols, as at Weehawken across the Hudson, soon after the war, I vindicated the motives of us Englishmen of American birth who stood for the king in the war of Independence; or with rapiers, as I defended the name of our admired enemy, Was.h.i.+ngton, against a certain defamer, one morning in Hyde Park, after I had come to London. But it has occurred to me that I can better serve Winwood's reputation by the spilling of ink with a quill than of blood with a sword or pistol. This consideration, which is far from a desire to compete with the young gentlemen who strive for farthings and fame, in Grub Street, is my apology for profaning with my unskilled hand the implement enn.o.bled by the use of a Johnson and a Goldsmith, a Fielding and an Addison.

My acquaintance with the Captain's life, from the vantage of an eye-witness and comrade, goes back to the time when all of us concerned were children; to the very day, in truth, when Philip, a pale and slender lad of eleven years, first set foot in New York, and first set eye on Margaret Faringfield.

As I think of it, it seems but yesterday, and myself a boy again: but it was, in fact, in the year 1763; and late in the afternoon of a sunny Summer day. I remember well how thick and heavy the green leaves hung upon the trees that thrust their branches out over the garden walls and fences of our quiet street.

Tired from a day's play, or perchance lazy from the heat, I sprawled upon the front step of our house, which was next the residence of the Faringfields, in what was then called Queen Street. I believe the name of that, as of many another in New York, has been changed since the war, having savoured too much of royalty for republican taste.[1] The Faringfield house, like the family, was one of the finest in New York; and there were in that young city greater mansions than one would have thought to find in a little colonial seaport--a rural-looking provincial place, truly, which has been likened to a Dutch town almost wholly transformed into the semblance of some secondary English town, or into a tiny, far-off imitation of London. It lacked, of course, the grand, gray churches, the palaces and historic places, that tell of what a past has been London's; but it lacked, too, the begriming smoke and fog that are too much of London's present. Indeed, never had any town a clearer sky, or brighter suns.h.i.+ne, than are New York's.

From the Summer power of this suns.h.i.+ne, our part of Queen Street was sheltered by the trees of gardens and open s.p.a.ces; maple, oak, chestnut, linden, locust, willow, what not? There was a garden, wherein the breeze sighed all day, between our house and the Faringfield mansion, to which it pertained. That vast house, of red and yellow brick, was two stories and a garret high, and had a doubly-sloping roof pierced with dormer windows. The mansion's lower windows and wide front door were framed with carved wood-work, painted white. Its garden gate, like its front door, opened directly to the street; and in the garden gateway, as I lounged on our front step that Summer evening, Madge Faringfield stood, running her fingers through the thick white and brown hair of her huge dog at her side.

The dog's head was almost on a level with hers, for she was then but eight years old, a very bright and pretty child. She turned her quick glance down the street as she stood; and saw me lying so lazy; and at once her gray eyes took on a teasing and deriding light, and I felt I was in for some ironical, quizzing speech or other. But just then her look fell upon something farther down the way, toward Hanover Square, and lingered in a half-amused kind of curiosity. I directed my own gaze to see what possessed hers, and this is what we both beheld together, little guessing what the years to come should bring to make that moment memorable in our minds.

A thin but well-formed boy of eleven; with a pleasant, kindly face, somewhat too white, in which there was a look--as there was evidence in his walk also--of his being tired from prolonged exertion or endurance. He was decently, though not expensively, clad in black cloth, his three-cornered felt hat, wide-skirted coat, and ill-fitting knee-breeches, being all of the same solemn hue. I was to perceive later that his clothes were old and carefully mended. His gray silk stockings ill accorded with his poor shoes, of which the buckles were of steel. He carried in one hand a large, ancient travelling-bag, so heavy that it strained his muscles and dragged him down, thus partly explaining the fatigued look in his face; and in his other hand a basket, from the open top of which there appeared, thrust out, the head of a live gray kitten.

This pretty animal's look of strangeness to its surroundings, as it gazed about with curiosity, would alone have proclaimed that it was arrived from travel; had not the baggage and appearance of its bearer told the same story. The boy, also, kept an alert eye forward as he advanced up the street, but it was soon evident that he gazed in search of some particular object. This object, as the lad finally satisfied himself by scanning it and its neighbours twice over, proved to be the house immediately opposite ours. It was one of a row of small, old brick residences, with Dutch gable ends toward the street.

Having made sure of its ident.i.ty, and having reddened a little at the gaze of Madge and me, the young stranger set down his bag with perceptible signs of physical relief, and, keeping in his grasp the basket with the cat, knocked with a seemingly forced boldness--as if he were conscious of timidity to be overcome--upon the door.

At that, Madge Faringfield could not help laughing aloud.

It was a light, rippling, little laugh, entirely good-natured, lasting but a moment. But it sufficed to make the boy turn and look at her and blush again, as if he were hurt but bore no resentment.

Then I, who knew what it was to be wounded by a girl's laugh, especially Madge's, thought it time to explain, and called out to the lad:

"There's n.o.body at home there."

The boy gazed at me at a loss; then, plainly reluctant to believe me, he once more inspected the blank, closed front of the house, for denial or confirmation of my word. When he next looked back at me, the expression of inquiring helplessness and vague alarm on his face, as if the earth were giving way beneath his feet, was half comical, half pitiful to see.

"It is Mr. Aitken's house, is it not?" he asked, in a tone low and civil, though it seemed to betray a rapid beating of the heart after a sudden sinking thereof.

"It was," I replied, "but he has gone back to England, and that house is empty."

The lad's dismay now became complete, yet it appeared in no other way than in the forlorn expression of his sharp, pale countenance, and in the unconscious appeal with which his blue eyes surveyed Madge and me in turn. But in a few moments he collected himself, as if for the necessary dealing with some unexpected castastrophe, and asked me, a little huskily still:

"When will he come home?"

"Never, to this house, I think. Another customs officer has come over in his place, but this one lodges at the King's Arms, because he's a bachelor."

The lad cast a final hopeless glance at the house, and then mechanically took a folded letter from an inner pocket, and dismally regarded the name on the back.

"I had a letter for him," he said, presently, looking again across the street at me and Madge, for the curious Miss Faringfield had walked down from her gateway to my side, that she might view the stranger better. And now she spoke, in her fearless, good-humoured, somewhat forward way:

"If you will give the letter to me, my father will send it to Mr.

Aitken in London."

"Thank you, but that would be of no use," said the lad, with a disconsolate smile.

"Why not?" cried Madge promptly, and started forthwith skipping across the dusty street. I followed, and in a moment we two were quite close to the newcomer.

"You're tired," said Madge, not waiting for his answer. "Why don't you sit down?" And she pointed to the steps of the vacant house.

"Thank you," said the lad, but with a bow, and a gesture that meant he would not sit while a lady stood, albeit the lady's age was but eight years.

Madge, pleased at this, smiled, and perched herself on the upper step.

Waiting to be a.s.sured that I preferred standing, the newcomer then seated himself on his own travelling-bag, an involuntary sigh of comfort showing how welcome was this rest.

"Did you come to visit in New York?" at once began the inquisitive Madge.

"Yes, I--I came to see Mr. Aitken," was the hesitating and dubious answer.

"And so you'll have to go back home without seeing him?"

"I don't very well see how I can go back," said the boy slowly.

"Oh, then you will visit some one else, or stay at the tavern?" Madge went on.

"I don't know any one else here," was the reply, "and I can't stay at the tavern."

"Why, then, what will you do?"

"I don't know--yet," the lad answered, looking the picture of loneliness.

"Where do you live?" I put in.

"I did live in Philadelphia, but I left there the other day by the stage-coach, and arrived just now in New York by the boat."

"And why can't you go back there?" I continued.

"Why, because,--I had just money enough left to pay my way to New York; and even if I should walk back, I've no place there to go back to, and no one at all--now--" He broke off here, his voice faltering; and his blue eyes filled with moisture. But he made a swallow, and checked the tears, and sat gently stroking the head of his kitten.

For a little time none of us spoke, while I stood staring somewhat abashed at the lad's evident emotion. Madge studied his countenance intently, and doubtless used her imagination to suppose little Tom--her younger and favourite brother--in this stranger's place.

Whatever it was that impelled her, she suddenly said to him, "Wait here," and turning, ran back across the street, and disappeared through the garden gate.

Instead of following her, the dog went up to the new boy's cat and sniffed at its nose, causing it to whisk back its head and gaze spellbound. To show his peaceful mind, the dog wagged his tail, and by degrees so won the kitten's confidence that it presently put forth its face again and exchanged sniffs.

"I should think you'd have a dog, instead of a cat," said I, considering the stranger's s.e.x.

He answered nothing to this, but looked quite affectionately at his pet. I set it down as odd that so manly a lad should so openly show liking for a cat. The conduct of the animal in its making acquaintance with the dog; the good-humoured a.s.surance of the one, and the cautious coyness of the other; amused us till presently Madge's voice was heard; and then we saw her coming from the garden, speaking to her father, who walked bareheaded beside her. Behind, at a little distance, came Madge's mother and little Tom. All four stopped at the gateway, and looked curiously toward us.